


Blood, Gold, Charcoal, and Sandstone

by UndergroundValentine



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ancient Egypt, Alternate Universe - Egypt, Ancient Egypt!AU, Consort!Poe, Egypt!AU, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Just a reminder Maz is literally just Lupita Nyong'o, Like just remember that beautiful Kenyan-Mexican Goddess, Literally Maz is just Lupita Nyong'o, M/M, Multi, Pharaoh!Finn, Queen!Maz, Romantic Tension, Sex, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Soldier!Ren, Threesomes, Trust Issues, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Villager!Poe, established relationships - Freeform, explicit content, language barriers, literature mention, mentioned sex, political issues, political turmoil, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 21:58:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 40,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7862713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UndergroundValentine/pseuds/UndergroundValentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wonders if there will always be lost moments between them, heartbeats and breaths of time where their eyes meet but words have stopped, even while the world and the stars still move.  Further, if there’s a chance that the man’s all-consuming smolder will linger for life, he supposes he should prepare, and learn to accept the trepidation that seizes him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sandstone

**Author's Note:**

> 1/19/18 Update: Made some changes to tags and whatnot. Additionally, just as a reminder, cause I know it's probably weird seeing Maz in the relationships: she's literally just Lupita. Like. Just imagine that beautiful Kenyan-Mexican goddess (http://www.whispereye.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/ny.jpg) who gave such incredible voice to our beloved and sassy barkeep from TFA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor updates, 8/9/18

The walls and columns almost seem to glitter in the blazing sun, painted limestone and freckled granite framing the wide palace entrance set into hardened stone and brick.  Images of history, old and newer, are carved into the rounded edges, stories of Gods he has heard a thousand times in his many years passing him in a blur.  Gusts of heat weave their way through the framework, sand tickling the tops of his toes and brushing over the worn leather of his sandals.  Sweat is gathering around his wrists under the dried fibers of reed that are twined and twisted into rope, binding his hands together.

At his back he knows there are a half dozen others or so, boys and girls, men and women, each with exhaustion and fear in their eyes.  Clenching his jaw, Poe keeps his gaze ahead, sun-soaked stairs leading them up through wide arches and into an open chamber.  The floors are smoother stones, the tiles nestled together and polished to glimmering perfection in their pattern.  Above his head, the pillars stretch and curve into the vaulted ceiling, basins hanging from thick, treated ropes to contain fire for when the nights get dark. 

There is an audience here, he sees, adorned in crisp, pale linens and jewel-embedded belts.  Half a hundred or more flank in small clusters either side of the chamber, some holding cups for drink and others free to gesture and touch.  Light catches the silk of hair and gleaming jewels, casting spindly shadows from persons and pillars alike, the angular tendrils looking more and more menacing the further forward he is pushed. 

The soldiers who have been escorting their party pass him, the leather of their shoes heavier and louder against the stone than his own cracked pair.  Behind him, he can hear the chatter of whimpers, the quiet shuffling of bodies huddling closer together under the looming eyes of those that surround them.  Fear worms its way into his core, not unlike that which had taken him when the soldiers first laid hand on him that morning, but he keeps his posture squared and tall. 

At first there is nothing, only a handful of moments moving along in silence under the gentle whistling of the winds.  A soldier steps forward, making the trek across the hall and up another small flight of stairs.  Curious to look, Poe lifts his head long enough to see a glimpse of gold, palm-fronds that have been strung together, and shaded bodies.  But there is a press of a spear’s shaft against his chest, and he drops his head again, breathing harshly through his nose.

He cannot help but reflect, now, in this instance, the circumstances of the morning.  He had arisen with the first band of dawn light, had dressed and eaten his meager portion of fruit and egg, before making his way into market.  Trade was hardly the place or profession Poe aspired to be in, but it served well enough to keep him alive, and he couldn’t have asked for more.  But then he’d seen the children—the same ones he’d sung songs with a few days before—huddled in the shade of a half-broken wall, looking weak and tired.

Sorrow had taken his heart, and further still when he checked his earnings and found that he hadn’t made quite enough for a handful of dates, let alone anything of sustenance.  And he thought he’d been quick enough, had slipped his hand into the basket of his neighbor’s stall long enough to grab the melon but not so long as to draw attention.  He had just passed it into the hands of the younger child, whose deep green eyes bristled with tears and words of thanks when the hand had seized him. 

He’d struggled, and had fought against the hold, but a swift swipe of a shaft against his ankles and knees had caused him to fall at once.  He can still feel the sting from the rock that had jammed its edges into his shoulder, the dirt still in his hair.  All he had done was give a child the means to survive the night, he would have paid the man back.  Even still, his prayers thus far have only earned him silence, unanswered and lost into the open air.

There is a voice, and Poe recognizes it as belonging to the soldier who had caught him, beckoning the first person forward.  It is not him, he realizes, as another brusque demand gives fear into the limbs of a girl.  She shuffles forward, careful not to bump anyone as Poe catches her tear-stained face; she can’t have seen more than a dozen solstices, and Poe has half a mind to reach out and stop her, shield her, beg her pardon for her naivety.  But she passes his reach and stands at the base of the stairs, and he lifts his head long enough see the top of them.

At the head, under the shade of the fronds he’d caught a glimpse of before, sits Pharaoh.

He cannot balk or stare for long, for the shaft thwacks his chest again, and he ducks his head as the soldier to his left comes and stands closer.  The invasion of space puts his heart into his throat, and he can still hear the quiet sobs of the girl some paces in front of him, accompanied by the retelling of her criminal actions—swiping herbs from the courtyard gardens in the center of town?  He thinks of her reddened cheeks and the dirty muslin that hung from her shoulders, and can’t help but imagine that her mother must be worried.

The others behind him are murmuring, wondering and praying, and Poe can only offer a few gentle whispers of his own that the Gods at least spare the girl.  She is young, naïve and afraid, and there is some deep, smooth voice that carries words like _child_ and _mistake_.  The urge to look, to know of her fate, is strong, but the soldier at his side has inched the spear shaft under his chin and against his throat.  He swallows against it, hearing blubbered and cracking praises of gratitude and thanks before the girl’s tiny feet slap the stone as she runs passed.

Freed, then.  Her voice breaks with tears, but he thinks he hears her laughing until the sound disappears all together.

The boy is called next, barely older than the girl.  Poe has to strain, but he catches mention of repeat offenses, a woman’s voice chastising the misbehavior.  He is to serve in the gardens and repair damages to the fountains and statues.  He will be free when he is done. 

With each gentle sentence, Poe feels the weight in his shoulder abate.  After a while, even the spear is removed, and he breathes easily.  The overwhelming lack of malice gives comfort with the notion that, at least today, Pharaoh is kind in his mood; if this is all he can be granted, Poe will take it with ease.  He thinks of the children that he fed earlier, knowing he’ll never regret giving them another night, as well as accepting relief into his soul that these other children will not suffer. 

When he does hear words, they’re sweet, lulling on the edge of musical, though he can never catch them long enough to decipher.  So often do the soldiers and accused speak that he has little time to recognize when anyone else speaks.  Even still, the moments slip by, bearing trepidation despite the outcomes, and Poe finds that he is the last one standing in the great hall when the spear taps his shoulder. 

His legs protest at first, fatigue from the morning’s fight having made them stiff, but he eventually steps forward, the leather of his shoes creaking with their age.  The people at the wings of the floor form an indistinguishable haze of fabric and brown skin, and Poe keeps his head down, chin tucked to chest until his toes brush the bottom step of the stairs.  Here he is to wait as the soldier recounts his thievery against his fellow man, embellishing the details of the struggle until Poe is ready to snarl and snap back. 

There is no need to, for the soldier is silenced by a hard, heavy, and deep “Enough.”

A moment hangs heavy in the air, and Poe hears the footsteps before they come into his view.  Rich, dark brown feet and legs wrapped in leather and gold descend a handful of stairs before coming to a stop some few paces up and away.  The lump that forms in his throat is small, tight as it sticks to the walls, and he struggles to breath around it as the soldier nearest him falters and steps away. 

“Stand straight,” the voice commands. 

Hesitating only for the briefest of seconds, Poe squares his shoulders, lifting his head.  His gaze follows, his curiosity and the demand burying the urge to pay respect and look away.  The hips are covered with near-white linen wrappings, held in place with an ornately jeweled belt and other gold fastenings.  A broad chest, matched with wide shoulders draped in a gold collar and leopard skin, take up the space of his sight as he follows the lines of a thick throat to a chiseled face.  Though the cheeks bear the last traces of youth in their fullness, the wide mouth is set into a straight line, jaw clenched, and Poe looks up to see eyes blacker than he has ever known.

He does not wear the _nemes_ , or even the _khat_ , instead preferring to remain undressed with a plush expanse of thick curl gracing his head.  Even then, Poe finds he looks no less intimidating, a hardness in his young gaze that betrays some unspoken ruthlessness with rule.  At his side is a woman with fuller lips and warm eyes, her skin as rich and matched with the Pharaoh’s glow, pleated fabric draping from her body in thin, flowing waves.  She bears her own collar, heavy stone beads of assorted colors laid into woven gold, glistening and brilliant.  Unlike her counterpart, she wears a headdress of black silken hair that brushes her shoulders, a thin band of gold keeping it in place around her head.

Pharaoh tips his head, kohl-rimmed eyes roving over Poe’s frame with something he can’t quite describe.  His Queen is just as masked in her opinions, her own steady stare lingering on Poe’s face.  He knows respect should force him to look away, to bow proper.  But the words are still ringing in the space between them, and when he catches Pharaoh’s gaze a second time, there is a considerable measure of warmth that had not previously lingered.  So close like this, he can see the tone of his skin, impossibly smooth and unblemished, the faint color painting his mouth, the bone of his brow. 

At his side, the Queen is ramrod straight with her slender fingers folded together in front of her, but her expression shifts to inquisitive, and she takes a single step lower, closer to Poe.  A few steps above, she is a good head taller, though were they to be on the same level, he guesses, the level of her eyes would fall nearer to his chin, perhaps even his throat.  Regardless, the light catches the endless depth of her eyes, revealing flecks of honey and amber at the edges, and he feels both empowered and small under her stare. 

Unsure of where to look, Poe keeps his gaze on her as she seemingly inspects every inch of him, sweeping across his shoulders, down his front.  She makes a sound that encourages the soldier closest to him to place a hand against his arm, and he is pulled a step back from the stair.  Protests at the ready behind his teeth, they are quieted when he sees her descend the last, her head tilted up as she regards his face.

Indeed, those endlessly dark eyes do come to just below the cleft of his chin, but he is powerless as she circles him.  Her sandals are nearly silent, the only assurance that she is close by being the grace of her fingers—warm under the spark of their first touch—along the space between his shoulders.  Holding his breath is an unconscious decision, chills involuntarily sweeping along his spine as her nails scrape light like tipped feathers over the swell of his arm, around to his front as she stands before him again.

When her hand comes to his chin, fingers keeping him steady, he is certain his heart stops.  A trader, and a poor one at that, is all he has ever been, but Poe can’t help his staring as the Queen observes his face as though he were spun from gold, the ghost of a smile pulling at the corner of her full lips.  Her thumb swipes his mouth, beckoning him to open it.  Obliging, Poe’s brow furrows as she stands close, humming quietly to herself before nodding once.

Somewhere inside the confused beating between his lungs, there’s a moment of thanks that he is still alive.

She turns, the silk of her weave casting a plume of perfume his way, the scent thick and floral.  Up on the staircase, Pharaoh’s eyes are gleaming and bright, his smile betraying him from his Queen’s approval.  Her hand slides from his chest as she ascends the first step again, the shift bringing them at eye level as Pharaoh comes down to her side. 

Looking at them, Poe feels words brimming between his teeth, but his heart is in his throat.

A command is given, the words garbled and lost in this muted sense of his being, but it is not to him.  Poe feels the hand of the soldier again at his arm, though the grip is considerably harder than before, pulling him from the stair.  Biting back a howl, he shrugs away from the hold, the grip going lax for a breath.  Frowning, he gives a parting glance to the King and Queen, having earned neither a final sentence nor a word of freedom.  His feet oblige as he is taken away from their sight, a thin blade coming to the reeds at his wrists, sawing them free in a single swipe.

“What’s happening?”  He asks, but the soldier remains mute, barely offering him a sideways look as he is escorted from the chamber, through archways and under a large, elaborately painted rotunda.  The curved edges are an unfamiliar structure, the limestone painted fresh and crisp, and Poe remembers through childhood eyes watching men and boys carrying the stones through the sand.

They pass alabaster pillars, threads of limestone glimmering in the light that sweeps through open windows, nearly every inch of the space painted or carved with a family history Poe couldn’t keep straight even if he were to try.  He loses track of the corners and paths they take, the halls that seem endless only to bleed over into new ones again.  He thinks the guard is trying to confuse him, to keep him from remembering the way back, or out. 

It is possible.  If he is here to stay, indefinitely, they wouldn’t want him to escape.  And he is almost certain there are infinite more soldiers patrolling, keeping watch of the walls, the gardens he can see between two massive columns that almost pain him to wonder how long their construction took.  They do not stop here, and he is ushered along down another wide hall before they reach an archway that grazes the ceiling.

Sheer curtains billow, providing only a shade of privacy for a room that holds silhouettes of bedding, seating, pillows, and tables.  Swallowing thickly, Poe spares a glance to the soldier before the hand on his arm eases him forward.  The thin fabric tickles his face and skin, soft and silky like water.  When he regains his footing, and looks back, the soldier is still there, though turned away and poised.  Guarding.  Keeping him contained.

Clenching his jaw, he pivots on the ball of his foot, finding the main floor of the room he is in now sunken lower than the outer rim.  There are a number of chests and wardrobes, sealed and locked along the walls, facing toward the center.  Pillows and benches are arranged, a pedestal in the center, the placement obscure in its dedication.  Swallowing thickly, Poe ignores the way his stomach is flipping back and forth, knots pulling taut in his core.

The room faces west, he realizes, as the afternoon sun begins to brim through the top of the arched windows.  A warm breeze rushes by, tousling his hair, carrying smell of fresh water and salt of the sand.  Basins hang within reach for flame when the day grows dark, though for now they remain unburnt, unused. 

There is another arch, with its own gently stirring drapes, and Poe crosses to it, having taken the time to remember that legs are used for walking.  If he must stay within these chambers until otherwise told, it would do well to know what lays within each room.  And though it is no less grand than the previous, this one is half the size with smoothed stone flooring and lightly painted walls.  Laid into the ground is a semi-deep trough, gurgling with fresh water—no doubt an offshoot from the river nearby.  Nearest to the edge are fresh linens and jewels, an alabaster jar holding what he assumes is perfumed cream, and a small, open, clay jar containing what he recognizes as _swabu_. 

He is meant to bathe?  And change?

Looking over his shoulder towards the main room again, Poe reconciles with some assurance that the guard will still be there in the hall, blocking his chances to flee.  Slipping out a window is impractical, and with the heat washing through and stinging the sweat in his hairline, he resigns himself to the reality that he must stay.  And where would he go, were he to leave?  The soldiers who patrol the markets and villas know of his face; he would be unwelcome by his neighbors for his actions, no matter how well-intended they’d been.

Gritting his teeth, he makes quick work of the thin belt holding his _shenti_ in place, ignoring the way the worn linen frays at the edges, dust and dirt shaking from the fibers as he sets it aside.  Carefully unknotting the leather of his sandals, Poe eases them against the wall with a ginger touch, before crossing to the trough. 

The water is warmer than he expected, though bumps still raise and spread their way along his legs and arms.  The first dip of his foot leaves his toes wet, the first of many layers of sand and dirt washed clean.  Kneeling down, he first slides his feet into the rolling waters, sighing as he watches clouds of brown and gold billow away and disappear into a crevice in the wall.  He scoops handfuls of water over his knees and thighs, scrubbing first with his hands until he dips further, thankful that the stone flooring at the bottom of the trough is weathered.  He will not fall, though the river’s flow does little to his balance.

Standing straight, it comes only to his waist, and with time its temperature becomes comforting, the quiet bubble as it flows from the under of one wall to the next resonating like a hum.  He soaks his shoulders and arms, washing away the grime of his morning before reaching across the trough for the _swabu_.

It smells floral, much like the Queen had been, though not as strong.  It is sweet and light, and lathers after a while when applied to his wet skin.  When he washes it away, his skin is smooth, the browned-glow from the sun unblemished or covered.  He finds himself smiling, lathering himself more than once before letting the river water carry the mix and dirt away.

There is another jar at the edge of the trough, next to an oblong pumice stone, and when Poe inspects the mixture inside, he recognizes the scent of oil and sycamore.  His stomach twists briefly, a phantom tingle coursing along his legs and chest.  He has only done an epilation once before, but the memory of pain leaves him momentarily breathless.  Still, if it is here, he wonders at the expectation of its use.

Swallowing slowly, he scoops more _swabu_ and cleans his face, lingering in the smell of flowers and herbs for a moment longer before rinsing.  When he pulls himself up onto the trough’s edge, his heart is racing.

He waits for his skin to dry, and considers going back to the other room where the sun, no doubt, is dipping low enough to cast bands of light across the floor.  He could lay there, and heat his skin, but he knows if he leaves this room, the trough, and the jar with crushed bone, oil, and tack, he will not return to it. 

Humming quietly, he kicks his feet in the water, feeling the coolness run between his toes before easing a finger inside the jar.  The mix is cool, sticky and wet to the touch, and he resists making a face before scooping some onto his fingers, smearing it across his palm.  Pursing his lips, he coats his legs and thighs first, the tack hardening little by little before he moves on to the hair at his navel, up the center of his chest, and near his throat.  Back home, he cleaned his face as often as he could, and he is grateful for the stone at the water’s edge so that he may avoid applying the mix to his jaw and cheeks. 

He does use it to help the process, however, and within a handful of minutes and a few hisses of displeasure, the fuzz of hair that had covered his cheeks, jaw, and throat is gone, washed away with the rest down the river.  The tack on his legs has dried, each moment pulling, pinching, and burning lightly.  Gnawing at the insides of his cheek, Poe does his best to move quickly, ripping patches of the caked-mixture, subsequently taking his body hair with it.

The first few are the worst, and as he gets closer to his inner thighs, the sharpness burns hotter.  But the river is cool and kind to his abused skin, and he lets his hairless legs soak before digging his nails into the patchwork across his chest and abdomen.  Each rip pulls a curse from his mouth, brow furrowed as blood rushes to the under of his skin, flushing each exposed part of him with heat. 

It is nothing compared to the sting of a whip, he rationalizes, letting the hair and mix wash downstream and under the wall. 

He dips back into the waters again, cooling his trembling body.  There is still the matter of the curls that cover his groin, as well as the ever-growing waves that are starting to thicken from the top of his head, and coil around his ears.  Chewing the inside of his cheek, he remembers Pharaoh’s uncovered head, the plush of hair that graced his scalp.  Would he expect Poe to shear his head like that?  Perhaps the reprieve from heat would do him well. 

No, he muses.  He will wait. 

Bumps are lining his arms again, a quiet chatter to his teeth as he hauls himself from the waters once more.  He has half a mind to lather himself in _swabu_ and wash away the remaining memory of the mixture, but he’s already burned through half of that jar, and knows he’ll likely need it again sooner than later. 

Dragging his legs from the water, he scrapes the remaining streams with the flats of his hands, the heat from the stone walls serving well enough to settle into bones and warm his skin.  Reaching for the fresh linens on the floor, he finds a folded _shendyt_ , nicer than the _shenti_ he has worn for years, and a new belt, both hemmed with dyed embroidery.  There are jewels embedded into the leather, the intricacy of their placement causing Poe’s throat to swell shut.

A small handful of these jewels would have been enough to buy food for the children he helped for a full moon cycle.  And here they are, instead, a decoration to be wrapped around his body. 

He helped them as best he could, he can’t be upset.  In the company and home of the Pharaoh, he only has what is allowed.  This, now, is being given to him, and he knows he should be grateful to be alive, to be given the chance to be cleaned and tended to.  Whatever lies before him now, he should be thankful.  But his fingers trace the patterns the jewels make, their seating fastened firmly.  He will not be able to pry them easily, though it’s not impossible.

“Pharaoh commands me to bring you to him,” the voice shakes him at once, a gasp leaving Poe’s lips as he whips around to face the source.  It is the guard—of course it is—who brought him before, face masked with indifference. 

“Why?”  He asks, pressure flushing to the surface of his skin.  He feels hot, riled, and equally uncaring that he stands naked and nearly hairless.  The other man doesn’t even blink. 

“Get dressed.  Unless you’d like to present yourself early.”  With that, the soldier turns and leaves him, stomping across the stone and through the sheer drapes, out of sight.

Present himself?

Pursing his lips, Poe fights the urge to spit and shout curses.  There is still water in his hair, the sting of tears in the corners of his eyes, but he does as he is told.  The _shendyt_ is soft, smoother than he is used to, but he wraps it tight, the fabric silky against his bare and hairless legs.  His fingers trail the jewels of the belt once more before that is wrapped, too, glittering in the warm light of the bath. 

There is a stick of kohl close to where the linen had been laying, and he smudges it around his eyes as he has done every day for years.  He does not need to find a mirror—though, truly, were he to look he might have seen the plated bronze set into ivory tucked into the corner—carefully tracing the tip for the desired thickness from memory.  It is smoother than the stick he had back home, fresh and free of age. 

Satisfied, Poe combs his fingers through his hair, shaking the last of the water free, before dipping into the alabaster jar.  True enough, the cream is light, scented similarly to the _swabu_ —if not a little heavier, and more of root and flower than herb.  He smears a few fingertips’ worth of it over his palms, weaving it into his hair, the rest on his skin until his hands are dry.  It will have to suffice.

There is a shift, and he knows the soldier has moved into the frame again, even if his back is turned.  He has half a mind to lash out, to make some comment of not needing to be watched so heavily.  But he has been blessed thus far to keep his life, and it wouldn’t do well to challenge that now.  Resigned, he adjusts the _shendyt_ once more, feeling somehow exposed even if he is just as clothed now as he had been when he arrived.

He turns, just in time to see the soldier straighten, and huff.  “Come.”

Poe rolls his eyes, slipping through the veil between this room and the next, grateful that the soldier has taken the lead this time instead of guiding him from behind.

The way back is, by the grace of the Gods, simpler than the way forward, and Poe is able to count the turns and hallways that bear familiarity.  If he had been taken down a convoluted path before, it was certainly to keep him from fleeing.  Perhaps, now, the assumption is that he has stayed this long, and there is no need to trick or deceive him further.

Or, perhaps, he is getting this all wrong.  The notion puts a lump in his throat, and Poe struggles to breathe around it for a few heartbeats.

He rubs his wrists as they walk, the memory of the reeds tickling his skin through sweat and agitation fresh in the back of his mind, his legs taking long strides to maintain pace just behind the soldier.  Together, they pass under the rotunda once more, the afternoon light glowing in the stone and paint.  If they weren’t blazing through, he might have stopped to admire it all.

The chamber he had been brought into is now empty, a heavy silence laid over the stairs and the thrones atop the landing like a sheet.  It is strange, even in its peacefulness, though something akin to disquiet settles into his bones.  He stares at the empty chairs as long as he can before passing under another arch. 

There is another, smaller, rotunda that they weave into, following a line to an adjacent arch instead of the one directly across, and Poe can see the flickering of firelight casting shadows on the floors.  The day is young, he muses, and in no need of fire, but crossing the threshold into the room that faces away from the sun, bearing the least amount of natural light—and heat—leaves him grateful for the basins nestled into small stone columns, near head-height. 

The walls aren’t as elaborately painted here, no doubt a testament to the darkness of the room.  What he can see is aged, bearing stories that are older than he remembers, though the names of Pharaohs and blessings past resonate with childhood memories.  Some are faded, chipped away and in need of repair.  A hand against his shoulder bids him pause, and when he brings his attention back to the main floor, his heart finds its way back into its favorite corner of his throat.

The room is small, dimly lit, because it is littered with pillows and plush seating, a number of bowls of fruit, and pitchers of beer and wine.  The basins provide enough for Poe to see the Pharaoh tucked into one of these such seats, the furs and collar missing from his shoulders and chest even as his image loses none of its regality.  He is halfway to slipping something between his teeth, his smile bright enough to glint in the light; his kohl-rimmed eyes are dark, locked and unmoving from Poe’s face. 

At his side is the Queen, the fine silk of her weave gleaming, though it takes him but a moment to notice that her attire has changed.  Instead of formal linens and her collar, she has adopted a _kalasiris_ of fabric so neatly woven and thin that he can see her figure through it, a lighter chain of gold and jewels nestled near her throat.  Her body is full, perfectly proportioned between the swell of her breasts to the curve of her hips, and dark beneath the near-white material, and he bows his head at once when she catches him staring.

“Leave us,” the Pharaoh’s voice is softer here, though commanding, and Poe wonders briefly at his intentions until the soldier at his side bows his head, and disappears back through the arch they entered in.  He is unsure whether to take solace or caution at being alone with the King and Queen.

He inhales, wincing at the sharpness of it; it is loud to his ears, shaking and weak, his heartbeat pulsing beneath the surface of his skin.  Staring at the ground strains his neck, but it would be improper to look at either of them without permission to do so.  But then why would they have gone to these lengths to have him bathe, give him fresh clothes, and bring him back if not to have him in some moderate regard?  He stole a melon for children and has been trussed up as though he is meant to stay.

Be thankful, he chastises himself, barely hearing the Pharaoh speak again.

“Look at me.”

Poe hesitates only a moment, before raising his head.  Two sets of black eyes are watching him like birds of prey, though they are each smiling.  He doesn’t find this comforting.

And, still, there is that damned silence again.  Pharaoh’s eyes remain on his face, while his Queen takes in the length of his body, the sweep of his hair, the way he has wrapped the _shendyt_ —did he wrap it properly?  His skin feels like it’ll burst into flame under their scrutiny, an itch beginning to form between his shoulder blades that only burrows and burns deeper.  He thinks he should say something, opens his mouth, but his tongue is dry and his teeth are brittle. 

Pharaoh raises a brow, and Poe closes his mouth again.

A large, black hand raises, and Pharaoh beckons him forward.  His knees are jumbled, awkward, and he loses his footing on the edge of a pillow that shouldn’t be on the stone, yet is on the stone—should he pick it up?  No, leave it; he leaves it behind as he stands, close enough to see the extension of the kohl around Pharaoh’s eyes towards his hairline, the fullness of his mouth.  The Queen is just as regal, though he can see the difference between her midnight skin and the slightly darker flush of her nipples.  He is staring again. 

She is still smiling.

He catches himself flinching when she stands, the suddenness stirring the air around them.  The fabric of her _kalasiris_ shifts as well, the center seam billowing, and he can see her legs and her hips, the hairlessness of her skin, and for once he raises his head to look away.  Of course he catches Pharaoh’s eye instead, the corner of those full lips pulled with amusement.  He can’t breathe, he just might fall over and die here after being so grateful to keep his life thus far. 

He gasps when he feels a hand on his face, turning to see the Queen stroking his shaved jaw.  Her skin is impossibly warm, the touch of her fingers almost gentle and sweet.  Her dark eyes reflect the glow of firelight, something in them swimming hotter than he expects to find.  Mouth still dry, he attempts to open it, to speak, to beg her pardon for staring at her naked body beneath the folds and knot of her dress, but he doesn’t get the chance.

Her grip tightens as she pulls him forward, and her mouth is on his at once.  She tastes like figs, fruity and sweet, though there is something heavier on her tongue that he hums at when she traces the line of his lower lip.  The kiss lasts but a heartbeat or two, before she is pulling away and letting her hand fall from his face. 

Poe wonders if he has caught fire yet, or if this is some elaborate dream.  He can only stare, dazed, as her smile returns, wider than before.  Her skin is glowing in the firelight, leaving her like she has been dipped in honey.  Eyes half-closed and mind still reeling, he shifts and sways as her hand slides along his shoulder and down his arm.  A twist in his gut desires to lean in and taste her again, the bow of her mouth smooth and soft. 

So swept up in her, he barely registers the shift beside them until another hand comes to his chin, fingers large and heavy against his skin.  He is turned, seeing Pharaoh’s face for only a split-second before _his_ lips are pressed to Poe’s, just as full and warm as his Queen’s had been.  But where she had been sweet, almost kind, Pharaoh is that, and more.  He does not force, yet there is an indescribable edge to his kiss.  It lasts longer, the trace of his tongue on Poe’s lips inching beyond the seam.  A breath tries to take him, opening his mouth until he tastes the tip, a shudder wrenching through his body with a moan.

He tastes divine.

They break, a swirl of color and music flooding Poe’s senses.  Under their hands, he feels hot and unsteady, blinking a few times until their image comes to fruition before him.  He blinks, licking the corner of his mouth, before his eyes go wide.

Wait, what.

The change must have been immediate, for Pharaoh rears back and roars with a laughter that rings in Poe’s head.  To his other side, the Queen is smiling brilliantly, her fingers tracing circles down the length of his arm. 

When Pharaoh regains himself, he is still chuckling, tears in the corners of his eyes.  “I assume you have questions.”

Poe blinks again, speechless save for a quiet hum that leaves when he opens, and closes once more, his mouth.  Pharaoh laughs again, shaking his head as his hands guide Poe towards the throne of pillows upon the bench, and he is pressed between the two of them.  Shoulder to ankle, their bodies are warm where he can feel skin, the fabric of _kalasiris_ and _shendyt_ smooth and neat. 

“It’s all right to be nervous,” the Queen remarks, her voice like a siren’s song, tickling at his ear as she weaves her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.  He hums again, swallowing thickly.

“I don’t understand,” he mumbles at last, glancing first to her.  She is warm, and bright, her eyes roaming his face before he feels Pharaoh’s massive hand back on his jaw, turning him away from her.

“What do you think you’re here for?”  The question could bear mockery, but Pharaoh’s voice is kind.  There is a tremble between his lungs as Poe stares him in the eye.

“I—” he hesitates.  The fresh linens, the bath, being brought to this room of fruit, fire, and comfort all point to a possibility that he is not sure he’s willing to voice.  He spares a glance to the Queen again, her naked body only modestly shielded by thin fabric.  The hand in his hair is steady, stroking gently, while the one on his face is firm, but undemanding.

He imagines those hands elsewhere on his own body, and his face flames again.

“We wanted you the moment you were brought in,” the Queen’s voice is quiet, words rolling like a prayer.  Bumps raise along Poe’s arms, and he sighs as she rubs the back of his neck.  “Formalities had to be addressed, first, otherwise we would have seen to you sooner.”

 _We_ , she said.  He opens his mouth, but nothing comes at first.

“I’ve never—” he stammers at last after clearing his throat.

“Ever?”  Pharaoh’s voice is disbelieving, his eyes roaming once more.  Poe moans, cheeks burning. 

“Not with multiple people—at once.  And not with a man.”  He has kissed men, women, and those who might’ve considered themselves in-between, nor none at all, and has never shied away from affections for people regardless of their sex or interests.  But there were certain actions he never had an opportunity to test, antics that he wanted to try but only with the right people.  And, of course, those people never came.

Pharaoh hums, nodding slowly as his hand drops from Poe’s face.  Cool air kisses his skin, and he swallows his displeasure. 

“We’ll teach you, if you would like to learn.”  The Queen muses.  Turning his head, he catches the light in her eye, the sincerity in her smile.

“And if I don’t?”  Daring as it is, the question has to be asked, though he regrets it when he sees her expression waver.

“If you find that this arrangement isn’t to your liking,” Pharaoh begins, and Poe is grateful to look away from the Queen’s face, even as his heart takes place in his throat once again.  “You are free to go.  Taking a piece of fruit is hardly worth slave labor.”

Free to leave at any time, he imagines he’ll never find a better circumstance.  Glancing around the room, he admires the painted history, the warm shadows from the basins, the threaded pillows and bowls of figs and dates.  He knows he’ll have none of this back home in the hovel he shared with friends and strangers.  He’d go back to selling wares for a handful of coins, scraping by as best he could.  He wouldn’t be welcomed, though.  He wouldn’t be trusted.

There is ash on his tongue as he glances between the rulers once more.  Here, he could be wanted—at least physically, intimately.  Surely, he might be disregarded on a number of levels as just a pleasure servant, but they have been kind to him.  They have been good, and caring.  And they are giving him a choice—something which he didn’t have many of back in the market and villa.  There, the routine was wake, dress, eat, sell, sleep, repeat. 

Here?  This is a new world.

“We would like it, of course,” the Queen’s voice breaks his thoughts, nearly a whisper as her fingers curl into his hair again, lingering, holding, “if you stayed.”

He spares her another look, finding hope in her brown eyes.  His heart gives a tug, twisting lightly between his lungs, though there is an apprehension that lingers.  He has never given himself freely without returned affection, and while there is next to no doubt in his mind that affections would be reciprocated, it remains different.  The dynamic before him is new, unfamiliar territory like the distant dunes beyond the great river. 

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Poe looks away once more, staring down at his palms, facing up and unclenched.  Any other time, any other Pharaoh, he knows he would be suffering for his actions; he would have lost a hand for stealing, or he would have been chained up somewhere laboring until his body failed him.  And, maybe, there is a part of him that’s afraid he will wake and be in just that kind of predicament.  But even when he closes his hands, digging his nails into his palms until he’s certain his nails will open the skin, the environment does not change.  He can still smell perfume, feel the heat of sun-soaked skin against his shoulders, the weight of all-seeing eyes, waiting.

They are expecting an answer, but the words are lost somewhere on his tongue, unwilling or, perhaps, incapable of making themselves known.  The hand in his hair settles against the back of his neck, pleasant and calm, while the other that had previously caressed his jaw lingers and trails nearest his arm, before retreating all together. 

“If I stay,” he begins at last, “what becomes of me?”

He expects the Queen to speak, having grown accustomed to the sound of her voice answering his call and questions before all else.  Her mouth is closed, though, her eyes moving beyond him to the man at Poe’s side.

“You will live here as our lover, friend, and confidant.  You will have freedom to roam the palace, the gardens, anywhere you desire.  You will have your own rooms when not with us, as well as any accommodations to make you more comfortable.  You will be fed, clothed, and the like.  You will not go without while here with us.”

Looking to Pharaoh, Poe searches for some kind of mystery, something left unsaid, yet there is nothing but honesty, sincerity in each word and phrase.  He wants to believe that it is improbable, that there is something missing to this scene, because it is all too perfect, too glorified.  But his palms are still sore, and the heat from Pharaoh’s body is too real, too much like the star of their sky, itself. 

Reaching out, he skirts curve of his knuckle along Pharaoh’s arm.  To be their lover, and friend?  The man is still under his touch, but when Poe brushes his fingers against Pharaoh’s hand, the palm is turned, and their fingers begin to lace.  Between his lungs, his heart feels heavy and big, pulsing fervently as his palm settles against Pharaoh’s. 

 

* * *

 

He does not sleep that first night, and he loathes himself for being grateful for the solitude away from his king and Queen.  The chatter in his mind hums louder than the bugs that sing on the river’s edges, their symphony pulsing beneath his skin.  Even with the presence of a bed big enough for more than himself provided in the great open of his given room, habit and familiarity take him instead—he curls himself with only the comfort a thin papyrus mat laid out over the stone. 

The air is hot, almost humid with the promise of rains though the clouds are far away, painted rose and gold with dawn light.  His shoulders ache, the press of the mat printed into his skin when he lifts his head and sits up.  Exhaustion gnaws at his bones and settles into his gut, but the depths of his mind are still screaming.  Dragging his knuckles over his eyes, he feels the makeup from yesterday smearing over his lids and the bridge of his nose.  He scrubs harder.

Crawling from his place, he stumbles across the room, ignoring the benches and pillows sunken to the center of the room, the basins of fruit that are placed within their reach.  A place for conversation should he ever have guests—though anyone who would want to visit a poor thief turned pleasure servant is beyond him. 

The walls are painted, elaborate retellings of myths, legends, woven with prayers.  There are a couple of blank spots, the stone barren in the morning glow, though he disregards them all in equal measure.  The veil covering the threshold between his room and the hall beyond is still, gathered shut and shielding his privacy.  He turns away from the hall, slipping through a separate veil into an adjacent room that he had discovered the night before to be a bath chamber. 

Instead of the trough with the river water, there is a deep well spreading from one end of the room to the other, laid into the stone, the lip carved smooth for easy access.  There are no paintings or legends here, the corners marked with a handful of prayers for good health and little else.  He was told he could call for hot stones for his regular baths, but he is already stripping his _shendyt_ and jewels, uncaring that the stillness of the water is cool, bumps prickling over his skin immediately.

It comes higher than the trough, the tiles beneath his feet slick as water laps near his collarbones, the coolness digging between his bones, and he bites back the wave that threatens to seize and choke him.  Dipping his head, he feels the water slosh through his locks and soak his skin, the creams and kohl running oily and thick.  He brings his hands to his face and rubs, fingertips scraping over his nose, digging into the corners of his eyes.  When he carts his palms through his hair, his nails leave marks along his scalp.

Poe’s sputtering by the time he rises from the depths, murky water running off his hands and jaw.  Shaking his hair out, he glances toward the edge of the bath, seeing a nearby shelf with familiar jars and stones.  He swallows around the lump that lingers in his throat.  

There is a small stone bench carved into the bath, and he kneels on it to reach for the jar of _swabu_.  Water runs in streams off his arm, splashing against the floor and along the hem of his discarded _shendyt_.  The dried clay is smooth the touch, scraping against the shelf as he takes it into his hold, a similar jar of tack and its accompanying pumice stone left behind. 

Uncapping the jar, he gathers the _swabu_ across his fingers, squishing it against his hand before setting the jar at the bath’s edge.  The perfumes are stronger, and it lathers easily against his wet skin, bubbling over the surface and tickling more the longer it stays.  He scrubs it along his arms and shoulders, pushing himself from the waters to clean between his toes, tracing the length of his thighs.

He rubs, rinses, and repeats, until his skin is pink, his fingers pruned and raw from the natron.

 

* * *

 

Poe’s called to Pharaoh’s side the next afternoon, a lull in the day having given the king a handful of hours respite from responsibility.  He dresses in a fresh _shendyt_ , belting it with a wrap embedded in lapis stones, though he walks barefoot through the halls.  Thankfully, he only has to stop once when passing another servant—draped in a crisp tunic with a heavy weave and dark eyes—to ask for the path to the south rotunda— _the one with the fires_.  Their smile is kind, words quiet, and they bow to Poe before directing him proper. 

The knot in his stomach relaxes, but only slightly.

Sunlight is streaming between pillars, the shimmering haze over the villa in the distance making the colors swirl as he blinks away the glow.  Warm air tousles his curls, sand sweeping in billowing waves across the afternoon sky, swirls casting high up and raining down in feathery sheets.  It is beautiful beyond the palace’s edges, and when he rounds a corner and turns away from the markets, he is greeted by the lush arrangement of the center court gardens. 

There is a pond, with curved edges, homing fish and blossoms that float lazily along the surface, their petals cashing quaint shadows in the bedrock below.  The waters are crystal, glimmering with the afternoon light reflecting off gentle ripples.  Sycamores and palms provide shade and treats, leaves rustling with a quiet melody, Poe’s stomach rumbling quietly as he catches sight of the fruits.  Sandstones and other rocks weave around the water’s edges, dotting here and there among tiles and sand, undoubtedly placed by hands but presenting as though they have always existed in these same spots.

So quiet and peaceful, it seems so uncommon among a palace of livelihood such as this.

The steady rhythm of footsteps tears his gaze away from the greenery and blue, a pair of hardened eyes steeling his gut and halting his breath.  Faltering in the hall, Poe hesitates and bows his head to the patrolling guard, a mark of sensibility claiming him even when he knows the villa is far away.  The guard says nothing as the footsteps grow louder, and Poe cannot help the clenching of his teeth when he tips his head and sees a browned hand coiling lightly around the handle of a _khopesh_.  From his peripheral, he finds the guard watching him carefully as he strides passed, until he is far enough away that Poe can be certain he has, at last, been disregarded.

Breathing sharply, Poe purses his lips before chancing a look over his shoulder, watching with bated breath as the guard rounds the far corner, and the stomping fades away.

Swallowing thickly, his fingers curl, hands knotting into fists so tight that he can feel the pinch of his nails leaving crescents in his palms.  He cannot expect any kind of a change in a day.

Having half a mind to turn and flee, to shuck the jewels and fine _shendyt_ , Poe spares a glance through the pillars to the villa, still humming and swaying in the heat wave.  The wide mouth of the sky is endless, cloudless, the dunes hazy and sweet.  There is sweat already prickling in his hairline at the thought of stepping out into the light, his toes digging against the stone tiles at the memory of sand.

 _You are no more welcome out there than you are here_.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he swallows again, and resumes his walk.

There are a handful of pillars left before the arch that leads toward the south rotunda, the gardens still in view to his right.  He makes to slow his pace, prolonging the opportunity to gaze at the embodiment of tranquility before he must pass under alabaster and limestone again, and again. 

He is nearing the threshold into the rotunda when white and blue lotus flowers catch his attention, green fronds lapping at clear waters that reflect shades of sapphire and milk.  He lingers before the arch, making a note to return to the gardens before stepping through and into the southern bend.  Here, the stones have soaked the warmth, a balm beneath his fingers and to his soul as he trails his palm against the curved wall.

Stepping up into the opening, where the veil is pulled back, the fire-room is well-lit with orange and yellow beams of light cascading across the tile between the columns.  The basins are cold, the oils within prepped for when the night rises with the stars, and Pharaoh is standing with his back to Poe, an arm propped against the stone, his gaze focused out to the dunes and distant pyramids. 

In the privacy of this moment, however tumultuous the rhythm of his heart may be, Poe cannot deny the grace in Pharaoh’s posture.  The glow of the day paints him heavenly, his _shendyt_ loose and belt thin, braided with small gems and stones.  There are gold cuffs linked around his forearms, glittering bright like the sun’s rays into the pond waters of the courtyard.  With animal skin draped over a shoulder, Pharaoh is strong and surreal.

Realizing he has been staring, the tension returns to the place between Poe’s lungs, a creeping and crawling kind of itch worming its way under his skin, weaving into his bones.  Restless as his night was, the memory of lips and hands remains vibrant as ever, his fingers curling and uncurling from fists at his sides.  The tips, just beneath his nails, are still tender from the _swabu_.

As if sensing the storm in Poe’s mind, Pharaoh turns, his arm slipping away from the painted pillar as a smile graces his face.  “ _Imi-ib_ ,” his King breathes.

 _Beloved_.

His heart is in his throat once more.

Bowing his head, Poe plasters a smile to his face even as his pulse threatens to shake the framework of his body to pieces.  A flash in the Pharaoh’s dark eyes has the coil around his throat tightening, and the man is crossing the floor in a handful of large strides. 

He knows to expect it, but his breath is still lost somewhere behind his teeth as Pharaoh’s hands come to his face, palms warm to his skin as full slips slot against his own.  The kiss is warm, if not a little weighted at the edges where Poe can feel the grace of his king’s teeth along his lower lip. 

Letting his eyes slip closed, Poe’s hand finds the edge of the cuff, fingers tracing the seam between gold and skin of Pharaoh’s forearm.  There is a delicate beating beneath his fingertips, one that kicks and drums harder as the kiss deepens.  Pharaoh’s body is hot, the bite behind the press of his lips earning a stuttered moan from somewhere deep inside of Poe’s chest, his cheeks flaming beneath Pharaoh’s hands.

He is hardly aware of Pharaoh pulling back, the heat coursing in his veins and tingling along his lips distracting him for a breath before his eyes open again.  Pharaoh is grinning, the corners of his eyes crinkled with delight as his thumbs trace circles over Poe’s cheeks.  A laugh bubbles, and Poe licks his lower lip, casting his gaze away.

“Do not shy from me,” Pharaoh says, the command in his words but compassion in his voice.  Looking up again, Poe smiles around the knot that is pushing passed his throat and onto his tongue.

“Forgive me.” 

“There’s nothing to forgive, _imi-ib_ ,” a kiss flutters against his brow, and Poe hums quietly.  “Come.  Sit with me.”

He goes to the bench, falling upon the cushions and into Pharaoh’s shoulder, a hand tracing circles into the nape of his neck.  Wind whistles through the columns framing the room, though the breeze does nothing to fan the fire that is licking its way along his arms and legs. 

Beside him, Pharaoh is silent, his dark gaze focused intently on Poe’s face for what feels undeniably like an eternity.  His touch on Poe’s neck is, graciously, gentle.

“Were your rooms to your liking?”

Such a polite question, yet Poe’s stomach flips.

“I am unused to such luxuries, but yes, they are wonderful.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Of course.”  In his peripheral, he sees Pharaoh’s brow raise.

“Did you _rest_?”

Glancing to him, Poe feels shame coloring his face.

“No, my King.  I—couldn’t.”

“I expected as much, and I am sorry,” Pharaoh muses, his fingers sliding up into Poe’s hairline.  Sighing, Poe’s shoulder sinks, his bones relaxing as he leans further into Pharaoh’s figure.  The words linger, resting like a blanket, and coupled with the massage between his curls, he might have muddied their intention, left to be ignored.

 _I am sorry_.

“Why would you apologize to me?”  Poe asks, forcing himself to look to his king even as Pharaoh’s fingers press into his neck, a knot unraveling beneath his skin and sliding free with a moan.

“Your comfort is my priority,” they are above a whisper, skirting with a kiss that tickles the shell of Poe’s ear, a hot breath leaving his body tingling.  “If you cannot rest, it is my responsibility to you to change that.”

He is so caught up in the hand tangling itself into his hair, Pharaoh’s lips against his ear, that he does not catch the one lingering on his thigh until nails scrape lightly along the muscle and fat, the inside of his knee twitching.  Glancing down, his own sun-warmed skin looks pale compared to Pharaoh’s color, richly dark and delightful, drawing circles and swirls.  Opening his mouth to speak, Poe catches the line between asking for more and wanting to stop, teeth chattering under a sigh as Pharaoh’s mouth warms his temple.

“You are not a prisoner here.  This is to be your home, but I understand it may not feel that way now.  I want you to know that I will do everything and anything to help you feel welcome.”

_Welcome._

He has to chastise himself for believing it is too good to be true, and his silence only pauses Pharaoh’s touch.  The hand is warm, tracing the hem of his _shendyt_ instead, though Poe can still sense the weight, each individual press through the fabric.  His skin still tingles.

“I will not ask anything of you that you are not comfortable to freely give.”  Pharaoh continues, his voice warm and sure, heavy enough to leave no room to argue or doubt him.  Lifting his head, Poe looks to him, to meet his eyes.

If his years have offered him anything, it is faith in the reality that the eyes are the wisest, most honest in those who are true—for a man, a king, so young and fresh, the compassionate promise of his words is almost painful.  But therein he can see, within the intensity and the confidence that there is something desperate to please, and Poe stifles his surprise behind clenched teeth.

Words are tricky, brimming behind the seam of his mouth, clawing at his insides with demands to be free.  But he chokes them back, tearing his gaze from Pharaoh’s to admire the bridge of his nose, the arch in his brow, the fullness of his cheeks—bones high and sculpting.  He is handsome and fair, inquisitive and bright in the youth he holds, even as his wisdom lingers at the edges.

“You need time.” 

Poe hums, carefully regarding the gifts his king has granted him—patience, kindness, and compassion.  The promise of a rich and affectionate companionship, trimmed with passions yet unexplored.  He raises a hand, pressing his thumb to Pharaoh’s mouth as his fingers cup the man’s jaw.

His thigh is still warm, long after the hand has left him.

“For some things, yes,” Poe admits, stroking the bow of Pharaoh’s upper lip.  “Others I can give.”

“I will treasure your pace, and anything you offer, _imi-ib_.”

Poe kisses him before any more words can affect his restless heart.  Pharaoh’s moans are warm against his mouth, their vibration settling somewhere deep inside of Poe that he cannot quite trace.  The press of lips burns, his chest aching after a moment, but he lingers and feels Pharaoh’s breath fanning along his jaw.

“My name is Poe.”

He misses the light that blooms in his king’s eyes.

 

* * *

 

His days become commonplace, hardly as adventurous as his first but never dull, either.  Meeting many of the servants and soldiers, Poe finds that remembering an ever-growing list of names is no simple task, no matter how attuned his memory might have been from his trade days.  Often he will bid a moment of apology for their patience before asking again, making silent promises to remember them properly.  Most of them are kind, or pay little regard to his errors.

Others, often soldiers, pay him no regard at all.

At night, he sups with Pharaoh and the Queen, indulging in plants from the gardens, fish from the ponds, saturated meats, and more beer and wine than he has ever seen in his life.  His first night included too much, and his second morning had been wasted in bed, his face flaming under the doting of his Queen’s gentle fingers smoothing lavender and oil into his temples.  _To relieve you of your pain, imi-ib_.

He slept better after that.

And he remembers the courtyard with the waters, the lotus blossoms, the trees with fruit ripening under the summer sun.  The fronds provide excellent shade, and the quiet breezes that stir and press waves into the pond are better than watching the winds blow tunnels of sand and heat over the valley and between the pyramids.

Though it is hardly a routine, there is a kind of expectation regarding his day when he stirs and rises on the seventh morning, rubbing sleep from his eyes before shuffling toward the bathing chamber.  The stones are already in the water, freshly placed and steaming when he enters, and he lets out a quiet groan as he sinks down, first, to the floor, and then into the water.

The day is young enough that the heat is a welcomed relief, though the sweat in his hairline begins to itch, and he makes quick but steady work of his cleanliness.  Having found an appropriate balance of honey and _swabu_ , Poe scrubs himself head to toe, digging into the roots of his hair until it is sticky and matted to his scalp.  The water bubbles and turns murky with the mixes; once satisfied, he hoists himself onto the lip, examining his legs and chest before determining that the roots are not so noticeable as to need the tack again, though he does scrub the pumice stone along his jaw and throat.

Cleaned and shaved, he leans over to the far edge of the bath before pulling at a twisted cord, lifting a small slat in the wall of the basin.  A quiet skirt of stone scraping stone bubbles beneath the waters, before the bath begins to drain down into a chute beneath the flooring.  He was told it will wash beneath the palace, to be soaked in by the land and returned to the river.  Perhaps there is more to it than that, but it is what he holds to.

A quick step out under one of the many arches of his room and into the path of the morning sun dries his skin and hair in a handful of moments.  His pace is leisurely as he strides to one of the chests, dressing in an undyed _shendyt_ , donning a heavy belt with lapis stones and gold weaving.  He opts out of sandals today, preferring to feel the cool stones beneath his feet as he collects a stick of kohl, powers and perfumes before settling down onto a cushioned stool in front of a slab of polished bronze, his reflection brilliant in the gleam.

His hair is mussed, unkempt as he weaves dry fingers to determine its placement.  Unlike Pharaoh, or the Queen, or most everyone else he has seen, he prefers his natural hair, opting to keep it short and cleaned regularly to avoid complications or filth.  There are options for wigs and weaves, but they are heavy and unbearable to him, having spent so long keeping loose curls or a sheared head when the days were long and hottest.  And, if vanity is to be concerned, he rather likes his natural hair, and gives frequent thanks to the Gods that he has not yet been asked to shear it once more.

Humming quietly, he dips into a jar of mixed honey, oils, and crushed lotus petals, smearing the concoction until his fingers are a shade darker than before, brushing through the roots and against his scalp.  To help with health and style, he breathes slowly until the aroma sits light and sweet on the back of his tongue, and he smiles as he tousles the curls further, shaking his head out until his hair is relaxed.  He rubs the remaining mix against his cheeks and nose, where the sun has dried the skin, until it is smooth.

Scrubbing his fingers on a strip of linen, he cleans his skin free of the mix, ignoring the stains left behind on the fabric.  Taking up the kohl, he is modest with the lines he draws around his eyes, leaving them thick and neat before extending them towards his hairline.  There are crushed powders that he dabs his fingers into, pressing the color over his lids to add to the pallet of his appearance, a blend of smoke and sky until he is satisfied enough to clean his hands once more on the linen piece.

Poe reaches for a small bowl of paste—berries, honey, and oil—to smear over the full of his lips when a gentle voice sounds from the threshold of his chambers.  Lifting his head, Poe looks to find a servant girl, far younger than himself and growing into her maturity.  Her eyes are soft and wide, a tender smile pulling at the corners of her mouth as her hands fold neatly before her.  Her _kalasiris_ is a crisp, white linen with an embroidered hem, her jeweled collar glimmering in the warm light as she bows her head to him.

“Pardon me.  Pharaoh seeks your company.” 

Blinking once, Poe nods, and gives her his own smile.  “Thank you, _senet_.  Where might I find him?”

“The rotunda to the south,” she explains.  He has a moment of warm kisses, tantalizing touches, and he swallows around the lump to quell the heat in his face.  “I can take you if you would like.”

“Thank you, again, _senet_ , but I know the way.”

She bows her head again, a funny twist in his gut leaving his smile a little more forced than he would have liked, and he watches her turn away and disappear into the hall.  Allowing himself another moment, he opts out of the paste’s application, rubbing his fingers into the scrap of linen.

Warm light streams through open arches and windows, shadows of columns casting long tendrils across the stone floors as he steps out of his rooms.  The heat has not yet come in its fully glory, but there is a thickness in the air that assures him of its impending arrival, and Poe decides to make quick work of his walk to Pharaoh’s chamber. 

There are few other servants or soldiers, perhaps many with their own duties to attend to today, and his mind wanders as his feet keep the pace, thrumming in time with his heart.  It is easier to answer the call of his king and Queen, the rising tempo of his pulse little more than a drumming beneath his skin, tingling and fresh.  They have been patient with him, their kisses warm and brimming with desire but their hands modest, lingering only long enough for him to take with him the memory when he sleeps, a pleasant hum in his bones.

He wonders when that hum will turn to singing.

Rounding the corner, his strides are steady and even as he passes the courtyard, the waters glittering in the afternoon sun.  The gardens are bathed in a gold light, and he has every desire to step into, but he eases the want aside, before slipping through the south opening into the modestly painted rotunda.  He can see the veiled arch of the room with the cushions and basins of fire, the skin of his lower lip tingling.

Stepping forward, Poe reaches up to part the veil with his hands.  Facing away from the sun, there is less light to trickle through the arched windows, and so the basins have already been lit, the smell of oil and fruit thick.  The air is warm, humidity from the river nearby dressing the stones and the breath that passes between his teeth in a faint, moist blanket.  He glances around the room, finding the cushions, pillows, and furniture to be in their same places, their vibrant colors and decorations glowing in the orange light of the flame.

He expects to see his king across the room, leaning into the column and gazing out upon his world.  But the arch is vacant, and Poe almost misses the sight of Pharaoh’s strong back and proud posture against the royal sky.  He blinks, taking in the room until he becomes aware that he is not alone.

Instead of Pharaoh, he sees the Queen lounging on a bench in the center, her long legs stretched across the cushions with an arm along the back.  She has abandoned her weave today, a gold band circling her brow and head, a similar expanse of plush, dark curl gracing the top of her head.  Her _kalasiris_ is the same sheer material he remembers, though the fabric is dyed a heavy shade of sapphire, and it is draped more like water over her body.  He averts his eyes, bowing deeply to her.

“Come, _imi-ib_ ,” her voice is smooth, the name of endearment buzzing over the unsteady beat of his heart, and he straightens slowly, “sit by me.”

His feet command before he has conscious thought of walking, the steps down to her place quick and simple.  She straightens, sitting up right near the center of the bench as he nears her.  Sliding onto the cushion beside her, Poe feels her hand skirt along the top of his bare shoulder, her eyes warm in the firelight.

“I was told Pharaoh wanted to see me?”  It is the first thing he thinks to say, face flaming immediately at how ridiculous his own tone sounds.  The Queen hums, the quirk in her mouth betraying her amusement.  Her fingers trail into his hair, and shivers roll down Poe’s spine.

“He stepped away for a moment, but asked that I be here to welcome you,” she explains, her eyes never once leaving his own.  He swallows around his heart, and nods once.  “How are you this afternoon?”

“Honored to be in your company, _Nebet-i_ ,” he admits, swallowing his tongue when she laughs.  She is heaven.

“You’re charming, but you honor me too much.  Leave those formalities for the audience chamber, _imi-ib_.”

He bows his head, cheeks warm under his cosmetics.  “I will remember that for next time, _Nebet_ - _i_.”

She smiles brighter at this, her fingers drawing circles into the nape of his neck.  Holding her stare for a moment longer, Poe feels the seize in his throat beginning to burn, and lets his gaze drop.  Hoping for a reprieve from the intensity of her eyes, he instead catches the swell of her breasts as they rise with breath, the curve of her hip, and he clenches his jaw.

Her hand relaxes, though her voice rings with a laughter, full and harmonious as the stones reverberate it back.  Lifting his head, Poe glances at her, wary.

“If you feel shame, don’t,” she muses, her fingers burning a path into his skin before she is gripping his chin and lifting his head fully, “if I did not want to be looked at, I would tell you.”

“Forgive me, _Nebet-i_ ,” he shakes his head, her fingers firm but undemanding. 

“You have desire.  I see your eyes,” her smile is kind, compassionate, her thumb tracing against his jaw as her hand moves to cup his cheek.  “We have been less than generous in helping you transition into this life you share with us, and for that I must apologize to you.  We wanted to call upon you sooner.”

 _I must apologize_ —he thinks she and their king must be a true match to grant him such courtesies.

“Being a ruler is no simple task,” he jests, earning another, quieter, laugh.  Her hand is soft on his face.

“No, it’s not.  It is unrelenting, often lonely, and exhausting.  But we do it because we have been chosen to serve and to lead, as were our mothers and fathers, and theirs before them.  Sometimes our path is forged for us,” she sighs, sweeping hair from his brow, fingers light against his cheek when her thumb returns to his lips, “and sometimes we choose for ourselves.”

His heart beats almost violently between his lungs, and he shifts to face her better.  “Is it so simple?”

She smiles, humming.  “No.  Regardless—I want you to remember you always have a choice here.”

Blinking once, Poe hesitates, finding no reason to doubt the tone of her voice, or the way her eyes are wide and honest.  Even still, he is a servant, having different circumstance and luxuries than he did before in the trade, the villa, but a servant nonetheless. 

She speaks of choices, though, and he knows his place—knows what he has been asked, dressed, and painted to do.  One way or another, there will come a day, or night, where he will be called to the task of serving his King and Queen, to serve and service them.  That is his duty now, and it will be his duty for as long as they are satisfied with him, for as long as he is content to stay.

But is it not his choice to find pleasure in it, as well?  To consent to what they ask of him?  They are offering him a choice—they are asking for his permission, even knowing that they could simply take from him without objection or resistance.  He thinks he should find the taste in his mouth ashy, but he can recall the figs he had eaten that morning instead, and shoves the thoughts away with the rest. 

“I can’t expect you to wait on my every need, though.”  He breathes.  Her smile is infectious and delightful.

“If I ask it of you, it is selfish not to share the same courtesy.  You deserve as much.”

He thinks his heart might surely falter, her words soft and her eyes warm.  Reaching to her, he mirrors her gesture, the dark glow of her skin washing out his own when his hand meets her cheek.  She leans into him, an audible sigh leaving her mouth as his thumb draws along the full and thick edge of her lip.  Her hand slips and weaves into his hair, the tug of her arm drawing him closer until he can feel her breath pluming against his mouth.  But she waits, her perfume thick on her skin, and Poe almost chokes.

She waits for him.

He stamps down on the rising tide of uncertainty before it has a chance to blind him, and he presses his mouth to hers in a chaste, and light, kiss.  It is enough to earn the softest moan from her, the buzz of it against his lips enough to tingle deep into his bones and settle there, firmer and more lasting than his best memories.  She tastes like wine and fruit, and something less describable but richer than he had expected.

Poe breaks for only a breath before he kisses her again, and again, each with more vigor than the last, until he feels her open her mouth enough for him that he tastes the barest edge of her tongue where the flavors are sweeter.  This time, he is the one to moan, bringing both hands to her face as their knees bump.  His eyes are closed, flashes of fire and berry dancing in the dark depths of his mind as he feels her palm warm the space between his lungs.

If he were to ever have considered his path would have been to this moment, with the Queen’s mouth on his and her hand against his chest, he is not even sure he would have laughed.  A perpetual state of disbelief might have first consumed him, but then she is tipping her head and kissing him harder, fingers twining into his hair as her other hand slides up and cups around his jaw.

Wanting to touch, to feel more of her warm skin beneath his fingers, or perhaps the rhythm of her pulse under his palm, Poe skirts a hand along her shoulder, seeking purchase down the side of her _kalasiris_.  It feels smoother than he expected, silken and light under his fingers, and the heat of her through fabric is almost as intoxicating as her kiss, sparks igniting under his skin with the desire to inch and be closer.  There is a fold he finds with his thumb, feathering circles into it until he touches bareness, the swell of her breast peppered with raised bumps as she shivers.

He feels the ghost of breath against his mouth, her laughter bubbling against his lip as his fingers linger.  She tips her head back enough to meet his gaze, eyes heavy and dark in the low lighting of the room.  The silence that weighs between them is thick, his mouth running dry as his fingers twitch along the side of her breast.  The Queen is not telling him to stop, or pulling his hand away, and the quirk of a smile at the corner of her mouth is—

“You’re free to touch.  You’d know if she wanted you to stop.”

The echoing voice of Pharaoh leaves his skin burning, and he withdraws his hand from the inside of the Queen’s _kalasiris_.  His face, he thinks, is flaming enough to compete with the lit basins in the corners. 

The Queen shifts away, opening her posture up as Pharaoh steps down into the room, his _shendyt_ belted with dyed linens and rich jewels, his large, black hands slowly untying the knot at his waist.  Swallowing thickly, Poe averts his gaze as a layer is stripped away, leaving only a modest strip of fabric behind.  Even then, he tantalizes himself with a glance to oil slicked skin gleaming in the firelight, muscles defined with each step.

A hand cups his jaw as his thoughts snap back into place, and he has barely more than a moment to see Pharaoh’s face before he is overwhelmed once more, a wide and full mouth slanting against his own with a sweet and dominating kiss.  He moans, more reactionary than he intends as his lips part, Pharaoh’s tongue finding its way between his teeth to taste.  He does not possess the same inquisitive nature of his Queen, taking initiative instead of time, but these differences only ignite a sultry flame in the depths of Poe’s gut. 

He smells honey, figs on the edges of Pharaoh’s kiss, and there is a burning want that buzzes over his lips as the man pulls away, eyes glimmering with mischief and pleasure.  Dazed, he watches with a half-lidded glance and a small smile as Pharaoh leans over and kisses his Queen, his hand cupping her jaw as he had done to Poe.  He does not look away this time, watching intently as he kisses her repeatedly, earning quiet sighs and whimpers, his free hand undoing the knot of her _kalasiris_ until the fabric loosens and falls, exposing her shoulders and breasts.  It sags down around her hips, the curve of her waist pulling as she leans.

His fingers twitch, palm tingling to remember the feel of her skin, to cup against her hip and trace up to her shoulder.  Instead, he watches Pharaoh’s hand carve the path he imagines, palm cupping and fingers pressing into her breast, his thumb flitting over her nipple.  She gasps, smiling, shifting her legs apart, the fabric pulling as well across her knees until it is taut.  Still, the material is thin, and he can see the shape of her thighs, could probably reach under and find her sex with ease.

Poe glances up to find the rulers both staring at him, matched with mischief in eye and lip.  He swallows again, his skin hot. 

“Touch her,” Pharaoh muses, his hand falling away from the Queen’s body.  Poe finds her eyes first, earning a slow nod from her before her fingers drag against the back of his own hand, pulling it forward. 

He does not object, the Queen guiding his hand to her chest, his fingers stroking the skin as his thumb finds her nipple as Pharaoh’s had.  As the rest of her has been, she is warmer here than he expects, though his own touch is blistering beneath the surface as his fingers draw spirals around the bud.  He feels her breath rising and falling, his own matching pace as his other hand comes to cup and frame her, his gaze lifting slowly to her face. 

Her bottom lip is ensnared between her teeth while he ducks his head until his breath fans along the space between her breasts, planting feathered kisses up her sternum, and down first to the right, tasting the curve with the tip of his tongue.  She shivers under him as something soft settles against his lower back, circles drawn with fingertips against his spine as Pharaoh shifts closer to the both of them.  His palm is warming against Poe’s skin as he takes the Queen’s nipple between his lips.

There is a flurry in the back of his mind, rumbling over and over with a gentle grace of pleasure as he mouths at her, circling the bud with his tongue until it is pert, her pulse beating into his teeth as he drags them over the skin.  Pharaoh’s hand is sliding up his spine, fingers tangling into his hair, holding lightly.  Occasionally he will dip his head, earning an unintentional tug that prickles the skin from his shoulders to his hips, buzzing along his thighs.  The third time it happens, he moans into the Queen’s breast.

Another shift, followed by a breathy moan, pulls his attention to the Pharaoh and the Queen, lip-locked in a kiss far heavier than Poe has yet seen.  Even still, there is a hand in his hair, the Queen’s fingers fluttering over his shoulder.  He chances a nip with the front of his teeth against the nipple, earning a gasp that is muffled by Pharaoh’s wide mouth.

Just like that he is brought up again, breath stolen by the weight of Pharaoh’s kiss, something slipping under his skin and into the core of his bones and soul.  It tastes like fruit and feels like a promise, lasting so long that Poe has to break away to breathe only to be swept up by the Queen.  Her mouth is quiet, cool like a spring compared to her husband’s searing touch, his hands seeking both of them out as the world spins. 

And then, she inches away, panting around a smile, while Poe reels.  Her eyes find Pharaoh’s, glimmering.  “We chose wisely, love.”

Poe’s cheeks warm again, and he plants a chaste kiss to her jaw, her breast still slick from his mouth.  Pharaoh’s fingers relax to the nape of his neck, stroking kindly. 

“I am grateful that you’re staying with us.”  The words are honest, though Poe still pulls back to regard them with caution.

“I thought my intent was clear before?”  He asks, glancing between the two.

“We wanted _you_ to be certain.”

His heartbeat is heavy, welling up in his throat like a vice before he chokes it back into place.  The choice—the Queen had mentioned a choice.  She waited.  The Pharaoh waited until he was comfortable.  They did not push—

“Yes,” it is cracked and weak, so he clears his throat and tries again, “yes.  I want to stay.”

Pharaoh smiles, a wide and innocent looking thing.  Poe has half a mind, an itching curiosity that brims in the back of his mind, to ask his age.  The cycles of the moon, the harvests and swells of the river he has seen.  Surely he must be young—younger than Poe, himself, at least.  But where he expects assurance, or even confidence, there is relief at the corners of his eyes and in the bow of his smile.

“This is all right, then?”  The Queen asks, and Poe frowns.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Your apprehension is as transparent as my wife’s gown, Poe,” Pharaoh says plainly, and Poe swallows his tongue.  Still, there is that _smile_ , “we recognize this is new to you.”

He has to laugh.  “You’re not wrong, _Neb-i_.  But I learn fast.”

Pharaoh smiles, though his eyes remain firm.  “I know.  But you, _imi-ib_ , will not go without understanding for much longer.  There are some restrictions, naturally, for _where_ affection can be displayed.  Courtesies, respect—”

“ _That_ is not unfamiliar to me, _Neb-i_ ,” Poe interjects.

“ _Neb-i_ is appropriate in front of an audience.  Here?  Such titles are unnecessary.  Unwanted, in fact.”  Pharaoh presses, and Poe purses his lips.

“What would you prefer?”

“My name.  It’s arduous, intricate in its crafting and worth respect, but for this I prefer Finn.”

“Finn,” Poe repeats, the name rolling easily like a whisper, a secret, a momentary prayer. 

Pharaoh smiles, and nods.  “Yes.  Good.”

Glancing to the Queen, Poe bows his head some.  “And are you of the same request?”

She smiles warmly.  “Maz.”

Finn.  Maz.

Poe lets out a breath, a sigh he was not aware of holding, and the pressure in his chest abates.

 

* * *

 

He mentions once to his Queen that he enjoyed retelling stories to the children in the villa, amid the glow of firelight and the comfort of shadows.  She shows him the library in the northern hall, endless shelves and cabinets of scrolls and pamphlets printed and pressed with rich ink all the stories and histories he could possibly imagine.  He is wide-eyed for the rest of the afternoon, letting his fingers trail over the dried papyrus leaflets.

There is a cooler evening that Pharaoh graces Poe with his presence, the broad-shouldered man wandering the edges of his quaint room to admire the lotus blossoms decorating his tables, his smile amused and kind.  He mentions that the gardens are always open, night or day, for Poe’s pleasure, though he must have known that already.  They share a small kiss in the arch, the stones warmed from the day’s sun, and when Poe wakes the following morning, more blossoms are adrift basins of crystalline pond water near his bed. 

True to their word, they call him to the southern chamber almost nightly, lavishing him in affection as chaste as interwoven fingers and as erotic as wandering hands, teeth marking his collarbone, and nails dragging welts into his thighs.  His heart still skitters beneath his skin, chattering his teeth until his palms are flat against their bodies and stilling their intentions.  But they do not pry, or pressure, and often brush away his worries with deft fingers through his curls.

When he is not in the library, filling his mind with stories and lectures of languages, he wanders the palace walls, and better learns the names of the servants he sees.  Their tones are gentle, their smiles amiable and bright when he greets them; though the sight of the soldiers with their _khopesh_ blades still weakens his stride, he squares and hails them as fervently as those who do not agitate his heart.  Many of them barely grace him with a nod, though he has earned a quiet _Well met_.

That is a start, he thinks, and, though he is yet to make any real friend save for his king and Queen, it is enough.

The eleventh and twelfth nights roll by, his body and soul laden with drink and fiery kisses that still tingle along his lips and tongue when morning rolls around, the quiet tick of _thirteen_ in the back of his mind.  The sun is low in its wake, honeyed beams of light tickling the columns of his room as his awareness focuses on the low roar of shouting and marching somewhere down the hall.

Lifting his head, Poe glances to the veiled arch, the voices too far to distinguish entirely, but the wash of heavy anger is not unfamiliar.  Frowning, he fumbles his way from the tangle of blankets, rushing to the chest that holds the folded linens of his assorted _shendyts_.  He is lazy with the wrapping, belting it quickly, before abandoning his cosmetics or sandals for the threshold of his room.

In the hall, soldiers are marching by, speaking in a fast dialect that Poe barely listens to as he slips from his rooms.  They are patrolling, an added haste to their step that twists Poe’s stomach into knots, and he takes the path around the back side of the palace toward the audience chamber.  This much of a ruckus is bound to have an answered call, he decides, slipping passed other servants who bow their heads and ignore his questions.

He is panting lightly, skin prickled as another shout had sounded, louder and pained.  It brings tension into his shoulders, a wince to the corner of his mouth as he slips through the arch, closer to the stairs than the front entrance to the hall.  Pharaoh and the Queen are already seated high above him, their eyes focused on the main floor, his entrance hardly enough of a disruption with the clamoring that echoes to the stone ceiling.  Huffing, he turns away from them, slipping along the wall until he has a better sightline.

The audience chamber is relatively empty, no doubt the number of soldiers having deterred from too many on-lookers from staying longer than necessary.  There are five in the center of the room alone, bearing spears, or plated-bronze _khopesh_ blades and shields, semi-circled around a man who, hunched over and beaten, is still the largest Poe has ever seen. 

Covered in sand, brown dirt, and blood, the man has open wounds lashed into his shoulders, sides, and one that runs the length of his thigh, but appears to be surface only.  Where the red has not soaked him, black and purple bruises have, marring his arms, chest, decorating his face and neck.  Beneath this, though, under the heavy though torn leathers and linen of his garment, Poe can see flashes of skin paler than the moon itself, having undoubtedly rejected the sun’s warmth and tanning.  Dark eyes are feral, scanning the room but only lingering long enough to add to the calculation of whatever fight must be left.  Blackened hair hangs in heavy, matted waves, and Poe does his best to ignore the fear that is seizing his throat.  

“What is the meaning of this?”  Poe can hear Pharaoh’s voice echoing off the walls, though his gaze first goes to the brutish man who nearly snarls at the sound.  The man’s brows are furrowed, teeth bared, though with an unmistakable confusion in the depths of his stare.  He does not understand.

“We found him causing a riot in the markets.  When contested by another soldier, he ran him through with a blade.” 

Casting a quick glance to the soldier speaking, Poe bites the inside of his cheek, before returning his gaze to this pale man who twists from his kneeling position, looking back and forth and around the room, each time earning a nudge from a spear’s tip, or a stomped foot to usher him back to the center of the crescent.  There is a hollowing in Poe’s gut, the edges smoldering with a heat that riles his core and burns his chest, and he steps away from the wall, fists clenching and unclenching.

Regardless of action, the man is scared, and only further riled by the threat of further slights.  There is another press of a spear into his ribs that draws a bead of blood, the red painting briefly over Poe’s eyes.  He is ready to scream out, to beg forgiveness to his king and Queen for the defense of this stranger.

But, then, those eyes snap in his direction, and he holds in mid-step.  Wild, they hesitate only for a moment before yet another press of a spear tears his attention away, and Poe sucks a short and shallow breath between his teeth.  There is blood dripping onto the stones, staining the tile, and if the man had not been pale to begin with, Poe would have questioned the pallor of his face now.  Even when exhaustion creeps to the corners, the eyes remain alight, though he can see the hands are beginning to tremble. 

“We were unable to speak with him—he does not appear to know any of the common tongues.  We had to apprehend him as best as we could.”  Poe stifles a snort, looking at the relatively unmarred bodies of the soldiers still pressing bronze tips to bruised shoulders and bleeding sides.  A wince colors the man’s face, and Poe breathes around his squeezing heart.

“Do you know the cause of the riot you speak of?”  It is the Queen whose melodic voice fills the space, and Poe turns his head to see her, finding Pharaoh’s gaze on him momentarily.  Heat floods his face—is he meant to be here?  Should he go?  One look back to the cowering figure begs him to remain.  “I fail to believe a single man could have warranted this much abuse.”

Bless her, Poe thinks.

“He was nearest to the fruit stalls.  Most likely trying to steal when caught, before attacking.  He fights like an animal, _Nebet-i_ ,” the soldier admits, casting wary glances to the man at the floor before them.  “There were already scars and bruises when we came upon him.”

“But you felt it necessary to bleed him?”  Pharaoh’s voice is even and steady, the warmth Poe has become accustomed to missing from his tone.  On the floor, the man lifts his head to regard the King and Queen, eyes flickering back and forth, wide and desperate.  Swallowing the lump from his throat, Poe looks away from the small puddle of red gathering under his knees.

“ _Neb-i_ —”

Pharaoh raises his hand, silencing the soldier.  “Enough.  Leave us.”

The soldiers turn and march away, leaving the room open and wide.  There is a pulse, silence following a heartbeat as another drip falls from the man’s side, rippling the puddle that is becoming a pool under his knees.  Taking a quiet breath, Poe quells the stuttering between his lungs before stepping further to the center, reigning his apprehension in with the clench of his jaw when he meets dark eyes through a curtain of black hair. 

At last, with the soldiers gone, Poe sees something soften in the man’s figure, though he wonders if it is the tendrils of weakness claiming the tension between his shoulders.  Even still, anger and desperation are swirling in equal measure, the brow furrowed dangerously behind black bangs.  He keeps momentary distance, hoping his face and his posture are enough to assure that he means peace.

“Stop.”  Pharaoh’s voice is softer now, no longer in the presence of those he must command.  Poe is but a handful of paces away, and the man is still bleeding.

“He needs to be bathed, and dressed, _Neb-i_ ,” Poe says, glancing over his shoulder to where Pharaoh is now standing, one step down from the throne he had been perched in.  “He's suffered enough, and doesn't deserve infection.”

“Let another care for him.  Wounded as he may be, I would not have you harmed by him.”

He thinks the sentiment should feel warm, but Poe resists rolling his eyes, swallowing slowly.  Pharaoh cares, and that is blessing enough.  But he is hardly afraid.

“I can handle myself, and him, _Neb-i_ ,” he breathes, offering a small smile.  But Pharaoh remains firm, the set in his jaw chiseled, his eyes unwavering.

“He does not know our language.  He could misunderstand your intentions,” Pharaoh presses, taking another step down.  To his left, Poe can hear an intake of breath, and when he looks to the man kneeling near his feet, he finds wide, weakened eyes.  He doesn’t understand, his gaze shifting back and forth, desperate for clarity.  But, and perhaps Poe is reaching, maybe he understands the tone, the lack of aggression.

The stranger might not know the common tongue, but Poe draws in a steady breath, straightening his soldiers.  If his life in the villa, among trade and traders from all walks, is of any service, he will have to call on it now.

“Fortunate that I am versed in several languages. Surely he will recognize one of them.”

Pharaoh gives him pause, and Poe can see the struggle in his eyes to remain firm even as his mouth betrays him with a smirk.  With a bow of his head, he turns back to the pale man, who is eyeing him warily behind a heavy curtain of dirtied black hair.  He holds a hand out, hoping that the man understands his intention to assist, but is met, instead, with a cold and grating stare.

Poe does not want to reach further for him, knowing that it would only aggravate his, undoubtedly, already fragile sense of stability.  But he worries with each passing moment that this stranger seems to glare that he will be left rejected, or that Pharaoh will be dissatisfied and call for someone who could cause more harm than good.  And wouldn't that just make everything wonderful—to be here less than seven full nights, and displease his King.

He is ready to resign himself to the possibility that he will not be accepted, when the man shifts onto a knee, pressing the weight of his body into his uninjured leg, his hand grasping Poe’s forearm.  His palm alone is massive, and impossibly pale compared to Poe’s sun-browned skin.  Though a quick look to the man’s face leaves Poe reeling—his weakness only aides in his pallor.

It is quite possible that the man did not need his assistance, though the way the hand squeezes his arm, Poe is grateful he offered.  There is a shift and shuffle before he stands tall, Poe’s eyes barely coming to his throat.  And Poe does his best not to balk at the way this man is all shoulders and broad chest, looking more like something spat out of a godly legend than from the womb of a mother.  The change in height leaves him feeling small, his breath lost somewhere in the depths of his gut. Even with the blood and muck against his skin, he is proud and defiant, the rags of leather and linen doing nothing to conceal the chiseled perfection of his body.

He does stare, though, long enough to earn a raised brow, though the man has not let go of his arm.  The palm is cool to the touch—logically speaking from blood loss, though Poe could speculate that the Northern nature of this man leaves him resistant to the heat of the desert.  Even still, he has to remind himself to breathe, to fill his center before letting his fingers go lax.  The man lingers, before letting go as well.

The skin of his forearm is tingling where the man’s fingers had pressed.

Nodding once, Poe beckons with the tilt of his head toward the hall he had previously emerged from, and the man’s eyes flicker first to the Pharaoh and his Queen before meeting his eyes again.  Poe can still see the apprehension, the guard behind the depths of his eyes—more brown than black, flecked with what reminds him of amber at the edges when graced with light—though he does not fault the man.  He is right to be cautious, for he has been through enough.

Taking the first few steps, he glances back to find that the man is, in fact, following, hunched in the shoulder with a hand to his side to quell the bleeding that still dripping down his thigh.  Bits of dirt flake and dust off, clumps of mud crumbling off his tattered leathers and linens, the reddened hue only twisting hot in Poe’s gut further.  Clenching his jaw, Poe looks ahead, uncaring to spare a lasting glance to Pharaoh before leading the stranger into the hall. 

It is empty, now, with not even the distant thrumming of marching footsteps to ring about.  He’s grateful, taking the quiet chance to satisfy his lungs for abusing them for so long, keeping his pace quick enough to reach the baths but not so much as to lose his charge.  His only solace that he is still being followed is from the occasional grunts, hisses of distress, and the shuffled sound of weak steps.

He takes the man to his own rooms, having passed another servant and requested hot stones immediately—he had resolved early not to take him to the first bath he had seen, knowing that the river water would do nothing for his wounds.  The other servant had given a wary look to the bleeding, dirtied, pale man, but had nodded at once before disappearing.  Entering through the veil now, Poe disregards the disarray of his perfumes and cosmetics from the morning, or the fact that his blanket is haphazardly tossed across his bed, slowing his pace enough to maneuver around the dip in the flooring. 

Gathering for the water, Poe thanks those who come with the stones, cradled in wools to protect their hands before watching them sink into the bath.  There is a heavy hiss, steam billowing throughout the room.  He turns, words in another language ready when he stops, meeting the stone stare of the Northerner.  Still clenching his side, blood staining his fingers and dripping to the floor, his gaze is enough to pierce between Poe’s lungs.

Swallowing thickly, Poe motions to the bath, pointing to the now-steaming waters.  The man glances, nostrils flaring with a breath before he looks back to Poe again.  Inclining his head, he nods, smiling faintly as if that might possibly assure the stranger, that, _yes, this is for you._

Grunting quietly, the man shuffles passed Poe, through the veil, and into the adjacent room, possibly ignoring the breath of relief that Poe releases.  Carting a hand through his hair, Poe glances to the swirling fabric curtaining the arch, watching as the man digs into leather and torn linen, the pieces falling away without a word.

The man is naked before he notices—or acknowledges, perhaps—Poe’s lingering gaze.  There is dirt and marring, but whether clothed or naked, Poe is certain this man could be the most dominating, physically, that he has ever seen.  There is an unabashed warming to his face, and Poe only tears his eyes away out of respect for the man’s modesty.  A snort comes, whether amused or disgusted Poe does not give himself the luxury to discern, as the man brushes by to sink into the water.

He tries not to wince as he hears audible breath being leeched through clenched teeth, looking through a half-lidded gaze as shoulders grow taught, pulled together as white hands gnarl at the air, curling into and unfolding from agonized fists.  Blood and dirt wash off in equal measure, staining the water pink and brown.  With his back turned, the man cannot see Poe’s eyes wandering, the exposed stretch of back, shoulders, and hips laced in scars, recent and old. 

Poe tries not to choke, swallowing his tongue.  The man does not seem to hear him.

Breathing deeply, Poe ventures to the corner to grab the jar of _swabu_ , as well as that of honey.  The wounds need to be cleaned, the skin buffed.  He will not bother with the tack—there is no need to strip him of his body hair when he is unsure of Pharaoh’s intentions.  Were Poe to have his way, he would request that the man be lavished in care, tended to, and provided means for a comfortable life. 

The man is hunched in the water, but Poe does not need to see his face to know he is in pain.  Setting the jars nearby, he tries a language from the west.  “Is there anything you need?  Or want?” 

Unacknowledged, Poe purses his lips.  The man is close enough he could try to help. 

Thankful he abandoned sandals this morning, Poe drops to his knees, slipping his feet and calves into the water with near silence.  Reaching in, he scoops water into his palms, leaning forward enough to let it drip and pour across a pale shoulder.

He is, admittedly, not sure what he expects, but the enraged snarl certainly is not it, nor is the whipped physique thrashing in retaliation, or the beady glare beneath steam and sweat slicked hair.  Startled, Poe shifts back, bringing a foot from the water and onto the stone, ready to flee, but his heart is beating with fire.

“You’re hurt!”  Poe shouts, the edges of his Latin rusty, the pronunciation sloppy from lack of use coupled with what may be a vain attempt.

The man blinks, his mouth twitching like he wants to speak, but the shock is evident, and it silences his tongue.  He understands. 

Sucking in a breath, Poe holds a hand out, defensive.  Peaceful.  “Let me help.”

Whatever wall he had in place before falls, and the man speaks in rapid Latin.  Raising his hand again, Poe shakes his head.  “Slow.  Please.”

The man huffs, and Poe resists the urge to splash him.  What right has he to be irritated when Poe is only trying to—

“Why?  Why help?” 

Blinking, Poe cannot infer which catches him off guard first—the nature of the question, or the low and enriched tone of the man’s voice.  It is haggard from shouting, fighting, no doubt screaming, but impeccably warm, a little soft, and he shakes the thought at once before meeting his eyes once more.   He can think of half a dozen things to say in the common tongue of the land, but the man wouldn’t understand any of them, and he takes a belabored moment with a furrowed brow to work them into simple words that his troubled mouth can express.

“You need it.”

He thinks he sees a fleck of disbelief, distrust, but the man resigns himself to the reality of the situation, and Poe watches him settle deeper into the water, remaining within reach—if not, in Poe’s mind, a few inches closer.  He turns away, battered back toward Poe, the ends of his hair sticking to his skin.

Dipping his hands back into the water, Poe makes quick and gentle work of rinsing away the dirt and blood that has not already washed away, making waterfalls with his hands over the shoulders and along the back of the neck.  He does not touch the man, not wanting another outburst or a fist in his face, but he knows that pressure will be needed to scrub away what the water cannot. 

Still, he pours from the cup of his palms, catching glimpses of scars and fresh cuts, and he ignores the churning in his core.  When the water serves no more, he pulls back in favor of drying his hands on the end of his _shendyt_.  In silence, he reaches for the jar of _swabu_ , looping it around the man’s shoulder and into view. 

“Clean.”  He says.  The jar is taken from his grasp, and the man makes a face at the smell.  “We have perfumes.”

“You’re a strange people.”  The man muses, poking a finger into the jar to feel the consistency.  Poe rolls his eyes.

“I have honey for your wounds.”  It takes a moment to piece the words together, and he is sure it is not perfect.  He bites back his frustration when the man remains impassively voiceless.

He wonders, briefly, if it would have been better for him to be treated by someone else, and let another deal with the man-child’s defiant nature.  But a heavy breath, and a pinch to the bridge of his nose abates the ache in his temples.  No, it would not serve to shuck this stranger onto someone who might not be able to speak with him.  Undoubtedly, anyone else would leave him to misery, or worse.  At least Poe can try.

The man is still prodding at the _swabu_ , smearing it between his fingers as it starts to lather with the wet of his skin.  His back is still turned, and Poe is undecided whether to be grateful or dismayed that he cannot see the expressions.  Swallowing slowly, he bites the inside of his cheek, his hands clutching at the hem of his _shendyt_ once more.

“I’ll go.  You’re welcome to stay in these rooms, if you’d like.”

At first, he is met only with silence, so he slips away from the bath’s edge, dragging water onto the stone before standing.  Beads stream and puddle around his feet, and he dips away to turn and make his way out.  He expects a grunt, or some other synonymous sound of acknowledgement from the stranger, yet there is none, and Poe stamps down the disquiet between his lungs as he takes a first step toward the arch.

Water bubbles behind him, a splash against the stone and there is a hand wrapping around his leg, palm along his lower calf and fingers digging into his shin.  He has to shuffle to avoid tripping entirely, a startled shout forcing its way beyond his teeth as he shifts, glancing over his shoulder.  By no means is he a slight individual, but the man holds his leg as if he were nothing, pale and bruised arm bearing no effort of keeping him in place.

The eyes are dark, widened at the edges as his full mouth opens.  A twitch, perhaps nervous or apprehensive, pulls the corners, and Poe glimpses a flash of clenched teeth.  He is trying, and the hand falls away from his calf, almost like the man’s been burned.

“Thank you.”

Despite its preceding action, the words are quiet, said almost like a whisper.  There is sincerity in them that twists the spaces between Poe’s ribs and lungs into knots, and he can only nod once before turning away, choking on his heart.

 

* * *

 

“Have you gone mad?”

The words are abrupt, and Poe has barely set a foot into the southern chamber when Pharaoh’s voice wraps around him like a vice. 

“ _Finn_ ,” his Queen’s tone is breathy, leaving Poe to wonder how much effort she has spilled in consoling their king.  She is lounging in her usual spot, her head in her hand.

“He knows Latin,” Poe says, meeting Pharaoh’s eyes while ignoring his remark.  They are steely, though thankfully compassionate at their core, and Poe swallows the lump in his throat.  He can still feel the Northern man’s hand on his leg.  “He may not know our language or customs, but at least I have a means of communicating with him.”

“I care not for what he knows, he could have hurt you.”

“Well, he hasn’t yet.”  Behind them, their Queen snorts with laughter, though Pharaoh shakes his head, and at once his presence fills Poe’s personal space.

“Poe, _please_ ,” hands come to his shoulders, holding him firm as heat radiates from Pharaoh’s body.  There is something taut between his brows that turns Poe’s soul cold, his own gaze widening slowly as he watches mixed emotions flutter and pass across his king’s face.  “We don’t know his intent, or his purpose.  We don’t even know where he’s from.”

Opening his mouth, a dozen different thoughts come to mind yet none of them sound satisfactory.  Pharaoh’s hands remain almost hard against Poe’s skin, a kind of desperation in his grip that betrays something akin to fear.  Meeting his king’s eyes, Poe searches, his breath catching between his teeth when the silence hesitates between heartbeats, and those enriched brown depths become an indescribable void.

“Finn,” Poe sighs, and it is only the second time he has ever said his king’s requested name, though for now it is less of a prayer and more of an apology.  The void fills with regality, and the vulnerability he so momentarily bore witness to is gone, along with his king’s hands as his shoulders are released.

“I need you to be careful.  Please.”  The words are hushed, bordering above a whisper that even in this proximity Poe still must strain to hear.  “If you are to continue providing care for him, I _need_ you to be safe.  I want to know when you see to him, how often, and if he _dares_ lay a hand on you—”

He leans in, capturing his king’s lips with a kiss to silence his woes, hands cupping the strong jaw and full cheeks warmed from consternation.  It is a silly thing, really, to kiss the man to stop the stream of thought, but he knows his king will listen to or regard anything else.  And the swell in his chest with each word, the brimming promise of repercussions should their newest guest cause harm, is more than Poe can handle.  Any more, and he might have burst.

Expecting a grace of tongue, he’s met instead with modesty, the chaste quality of Pharaoh’s mouth slotted against his own a welcome surprise to the usual flurry of heat and want he is so often met with.  Lingering, Poe relishes in this kind of gentility, feeling the fingers tightening in his hair, a palm warming his hip before circling to the small of his back.  A step closer and his chest bumps against Pharaoh’s, a stuttered rhythm finding his own heartbeat.

He tastes sweet, something fruity and light, and not at all the heavy tartness of figs or wine.  Finding that the flavor is decadent, Poe opens his mouth wider, an invitation for his king that is accepted almost immediately, and he moans quietly as his tongue is met with Pharaoh’s.  Fingers curl, pulling at his hair and sending shivers down his spine that coil and dig into his gut, his core beginning to ache.

The need for breath consumes him, and he presses his forehead to Pharaoh’s, lips burning as he is chased and nipped. 

“You worry too much,” Poe sighs, feeling Pharaoh smile under his hands.    

“I’m afraid I don’t worry enough, sometimes,” Pharaoh admits, planting another kiss to Poe’s mouth.  “Be careful with him.”

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

It’s the first night Poe stays with Pharaoh and the Queen, an unspoken but appreciated understanding that he lays between them without wanton intention, their bodies warmer than the afternoon sun on either side of him.  He sleeps little, the first few hours a strange state of floating aimlessly in the dark, their heartbeats akin to the drumming that boils in his bones.

The sun has not even risen, the faint wash of rose and honey smearing into the sky when he slips away.  He is quiet enough not to disturb their slumber, listening intently to their breath for the slightest changes.  When there are none, he redresses in his _shendyt_ and belt, and slinks into the hall.

Most of the paths are still dark, only the occasional patrol to pass him by as he retreats from the southern point towards the eastern hall.  A handful of torches and basins are lit, lining every dozen yards even as the dawn light begins to trickle between columns and pillars, limestone glittering among the bands of painted carvings.  In the lull like this, there is peace, and he breathes slowly.

He thinks of the stranger, the pale and battered body that may yet be resting in his room.  Pharaoh had taken unkindly to the idea that the man was in Poe’s place of comfort, but Poe had been defiant, begging his king for an alternative solution so quickly.  His Queen had laughed as Pharaoh opened and closed his mouth, huffing loudly.

Truly, though, where would the man have gone?  The palace has the room to spare, but to shuck him into one and be done with him would be unfair.  Unconventional as it had been, Poe had been spared better kindness on such short notice; to offer less to another simply because he happened to be part of a brawl was degrading.

Still, there is a creeping and itching fear that, upon his return, the man will not be there.  And what then could he do, or say, to appease Pharaoh, knowing that their _guest_ had wandered away and vanished while the night slept?  With each step towards the east, towards his own rooms with their pillows, the fruits and furs facing the rise of the morning, tension swells and grows thick in his throat.

Rounding another corner, he passes a pair of guards, their blades belted at their hips and their wraps drawn tight, uniform and clean.  He bows his head in kindness, keeping his strides quick and even.  He feels their eyes more than he sees them, does not earn the gentle _Morning_ he has from others, and sighs heavily when the strain in his lungs proves too much to contain, thankful that the hall is short, and the distance from his rooms less so.

Leaning into the corner, out of sight, he spares himself a moment to sink into the stone and breathe.  The wall is cool, untouched by the sun, and he gazes out to the dunes and distant valley becoming gold, spun by the whirl of wind that carries away the rose and violet hues of the fading dark.  Serene and beautiful as it is, the hush of the hall only burrows deeper into the unsettling pressure in his bones. 

The world of royalty sleeps, while that far away villa and life begins to rise, unrelenting in its routine with the coming glow of the day.

Clenching his jaw, he tears his eyes away from the sand, looking in through the pillars and down the stretch.  He can see the veil that shields his rooms, the edge of the threshold that remains shadowed even as light begins to bleed in.  Quiet, or empty, he will not know until he sees, so he steels himself and presses onward, palms digging into the stone until he is walking.  And then twenty paces are ten, and five, and his hands are trailing between the lines where the stones are cemented together from time and weight, his nails catching a chip as a breeze opens the veil to him.

It is poetic, he supposes.

The fires are out, whether from dried oil or from another’s volition, he does not know, but he steps through the arch.  The furniture remains as it had been the day before, the sun peeking between the columns across the room.  His gaze sweeps first to the bed, made up and unoccupied, and he ignores the way his chest grows cold. 

His wardrobe is untouched, the table of his cosmetics and perfumes haphazardly displayed as he’d left them.  Ready to release the breath he is holding, Poe swallows the lump that has already formed, turning away from the far corner of the room when a shift catches his attention.  Light spills across the center, its rays just brushing the top of a cream-white shoulder. 

Curled into a ball, in a fitful sleep, the stranger’s hair is draped in gnarled waves around his face, arms folded in against his chest and his knees drawn up.  An occasional tremor wracks him, the lack of cover exposing him to the night’s chill.  He looks small, the low and steady huff of his breath interrupted every few moments by a hum. 

It takes another moment to realize that the man is naked, having never redressed after his bath the day before, and, _Gods_ , how long has he been in here like this?  Pain lashes through him, cutting ribbons between his ribs, and Poe does hit best not to choke on a breath when another shiver wracks muscle and limb.  Veiled by black hair, he sees a full mouth pursed into a thin line.

Biting his cheek, Poe hurries across the room, keeping his steps light enough to minimize his sound.  His fingers curl at the blanket draped over his bed, pulling it free with a hush.  Its ends drag against the stone as he tiptoes down into the center, maneuvering slowly around cushion and edge of fur until he’s near the man. 

With the hair tossed over his face, Poe cannot see the change, the way the expression hardens with consciousness.  He does not hear the low pattern of breathing halt, intent on bringing the blanket over the stranger’s huddled form without too much interruption.  Pursing his lips, he leans, bringing the fabric over elbow and shoulder, his fingers leaving the barest trace against skin. 

The jerk of the shoulder away from his touch startles him enough that he falters back, his foot skirting against the fur as he falls.  Blessed as he could be, he lands mostly against cushions, though his elbow and forearm catch the lip of the bottom stair.

He has learned to swallow pain before, few and, thankfully, far between memories of a whip gracing his back or thighs for insolence in the markets.  Poe bites his tongue and groans, tasting iron as he inhales deeply through his nose.  The stranger shifts, pulling further away from him, the blanket tangled around his legs.  Those dark eyes remain narrowed, wide at the edges, the mouth a hard line of disdain.

Swallowing, Poe ignores the mild taste of blood.  “I’m sorry, you seemed cold.”  He hisses, uncaring for the way his tone sharpens with each rusted word.  “Forgive me for trying to warm you.”

There is no response beyond the stranger’s unwavering stare, the light of the morning haloing dark locks, honeying their ends.  Licking his lips, Poe eases off his injured arm, testing the tenderness as he bends and shifts, knowing it will darken with bruising.  He has powders to conceal its extremity, but the impending concern, and undoubtable wrath, of Pharaoh is one he will not be able to ignore.

Looking to the man again, Poe finds that his position has not changed, his eyes unblinking.  Raising a brow, Poe gathers himself to his knees.  “Are you hungry?”

Nothing, and he does not hide the roll of his eyes.  “You can either eat now, or not for another several hours.  You choose.”

It is a quick slip, but the hardened resolve shifts, weakens, and for a moment Poe sees something of hesitation in the man’s eyes.  He ignores the pulsing in his arm, slowly rising to his feet.  Extending his left hand to the stranger, he meets dark eyes again, and tries to remain passive. 

The gaze wavers, first to his palm and then back to his face.  His own words are mulling around in his mind, and Poe bites his cheek at the reality that this man has not eaten since arrival.  And here he is, threatening to starve him further, while then expecting the man to take his hand?  _Foolish_.

Ready to drop his palm, Poe watches as the man shifts and rises, letting the blanket fall away into a pool at his ankles, his body tall and proud as the sun halos his skin.  A shiver races its way through his spine, and he has to tilt his head to meet the man’s eyes, yet there is steel in his core and fire in his bones.  He will not become small in this man’s presence, even as guilt gnaws him from inside out.

Breathing slowly, Poe nods slowly, bowing his head to look the man up and down once, his gut twisting at the sight of scars lacing his thighs, some cutting so far up the inside that he has to tear himself away from the glimpse of dark curls and soft flesh.  _Proud man_ , he muses, swallowing slowly before meeting the Northerner’s gaze again.

Opening his mouth, he begins to speak, hesitating briefly as he catches the barest hint of a smile on the man’s mouth.  It is gone with a blink.

“I suppose I should find you clothes.”  He tries, mumbling the words that garble his tongue. 

“I suppose you should.”  The stranger’s voice is thick, rich and baritone, his expression deadpan as his eyes glint.  His pronunciation is clear and crisp, the drawl of his tone slow enough that Poe commits the sounds to memory, prepared to hum them later.

Raising a brow, Poe huffs quietly.  “They will not be what you’re used to.”

“I’ll adapt.”

Snorting, Poe shakes his head, muttering in the comfort of his common tongue.  “I’m sure.”  If the stranger has an opinion of his language change, he says nothing.

Turning away, Poe wanders across the room, away from the inlaid floor with the furs, and to the wardrobe and chest tucked into the walls.  He is thankful that the _shendyts_ tucked away bear extra fabric to accommodate the width of the stranger’s hips, though the belts may be another story.  Still, he rifles through the folded bundles, fingers tracing the ones dipped in dyes and embedded with jewels, the finer linens and foreign patterns intended for richer affairs. 

Withdrawing a plainer wrap with a dyed hem, he turns and produces it for the stranger, earning less than a hum of acceptance. 

“Would you like my help?”  Poe offers in Latin, biting back the sharp edges in favor of slowing the words to mull and correct their shape.  The man glances at him, and while the lack of response is less than ideal, he isn’t rejecting Poe outright, either.  “I can show you with mine.”

This time, he nods, and Poe holds the linen out with a hand.  A single moment separation before the man reaches out and takes the wraps from Poe’s grasp, the two of them somehow careful enough not to touch. 

Nodding once, Poe frees the belt and knot of his own _shendyt_ , ignoring the unruly throb of his pulse against his ribs.  Baring himself to the stranger, he holds the ends of the fabric in both palms, the first half draped along the back of his thighs.  When the stranger mimics, Poe carefully walks him through the proper method of wrapping and tucking the folds, keeping them snug and light against the skin. 

It takes a second try for the linen to fit appropriately, though not without Poe assuring the man that he bears no ill-will before bringing in the final tuck with his own hands.  The pale flesh of his abdomen is cool, and taut, and Poe’s fingers only skim it lightly as he adjusts the _shendyt_ before it sits right.  Stepping back, Poe nods once, satisfied with the man’s dressing, and fervently avoiding his looming gaze.

Head bowed as Poe admires the knot, he swallows the lump in his throat before speaking, quietly.  “I’m sorry.”

The man before him remains stoic and silent, though a tilted head prompts Poe to explain.

“I never returned, or insured that you would have food.”  He muses, chancing a moment to lift his gaze to the stranger’s.  Still somber, though not quite as devastatingly indignant.  “It was unkind of me.”

“I live.”  The man’s voice is careful, any previous presence of cutting severity momentarily vacant. 

“Comfortably?”  Poe presses, raising a brow.  Dark brown eyes waver, and look away.  “Just as I thought.”

Turning away, Poe bends and shuts the chest containing the other linens, before rising again.  Having taken the man into his charge, there is a kind of obligation to tend to his well-being, and having thus far ignored basic necessities such as clothing and food already strikes him wrong.  Shame bubbles in his core, boiling in his bones until he’s itching at the skin of his arm to relieve the stress, and he sighs again. 

“Come,” he says, motioning to the veiled threshold of the room, “the day is young.  Fewer eyes, and first pickings.”

He starts to go, the gentle tapping of his bare feet against the stone betraying the truth that his companion is not following.  Lingering in the arch, Poe turns and glances to the man, a sharp twist to his heart serving as his only gift to the sight of the pale stranger’s afflicted expression. 

“Have I offended you?”  Poe offers, breathing lightly around the rawness.

“You apologize to me when I have caused you pain,” his eyes are on Poe’s arm, even as the discoloring is turned away.  “Why do you care?”

Perhaps he should not, Poe wonders, pondering the words with brief but adamant consideration.  Unfamiliar to the land and its people, this stranger could pose as a threat to his livelihood, and that of his king and Queen.  Yet, insofar as he has borne witness, the man has been beaten, left cold and alone without another to come after him.  And, if the occasional sightings of emotion in his eyes have betrayed anything, it is that he’s scared.

Leaning into the stone of the wall, Poe glances first to the morning light that fills his room, the impending wave of warmth that will soon follow with another glorious mid-year day.  The sands will be hot, the waters cool, and life will move on. 

“I care because everyone deserves a second chance—or a first.  You might have done wrong, I don’t know.  But you deserve an opportunity to do right.”

He meets the stranger’s eyes, finding them wide, though guarded.  “You don’t know me.”

Chuckling, Poe eases off the stone work, and opens the veil with a hand.  “I’d like to, if you’ll allow me.”

He wonders if there will allows be lost moments between them, heartbeats and breaths of time where their eyes meet but words have stopped, even while the world and the stars still move.  Further, if there is a chance that the man’s all-consuming smolder will linger for life, he supposes he should prepare, and learn to accept the trepidation that seizes him. 

Watching as the man crosses the floor, and slips through the veil, Poe grants himself the small victory of his own second chance before following him into the hall.


	2. Charcoal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus fucking--Hi? 
> 
> Yeah. Hi. It's been a while. 
> 
> Big fucking thanks to AquaWolfGirl for helping me through most of the rough parts of this chapter. I'd say the first... five thousand words of this chapter I wrote almost a year ago before letting it gather dust, and the rest of it has been written in the last like four days? Maybe five? So huge thanks to my darling for assisting me and encouraging me to continue when I felt like I should just give up. 
> 
> And yeah there's probably mention of stuff that's historically inaccurate but idgaf :D
> 
> Anyway. Here ya go. <3

The days grow hotter, unbearable swells of sandstorms rippling through the villas, the pillars, dusting over the great river until the whistling between the pyramids sounds more like screams at night.  Chaotic and unrelenting, he remembers his youth, and the nights spent clutching his weary mother as she soothed him through the strife that swept across the land.  Back then, the wails were haunting, harsh and terrifying, lingering in his mind and dreams long after slumber would finally take him.  Now, though, Poe strives to hear their song instead, finding a harmonious line that is bittersweet; though, it must be said, the resounding sensation of grief maintains its age-old ache in his soul.

There are clouds in the skies, heavy and thick, hanging low enough that he wonders if he can reach out and touch them were he up just a little higher.  Sometimes they offer reprieve from the garish gleam of the sun, momentary spells of shade and relief before rumbling along, unforgiving as they tease.  As much as he finds peace in the gardens near the trees and the ponds, the quiet of the courtyard, the heat waves even keep the darkest, toughest people inside.

He is called to Pharaoh’s side more than once, the willing subject to wandering touches and strokes deep enough to burn the memory into his dreams so that he wakes in a mess.  Lips still singed from the flavor of wine and his king, the ghost of his Queen’s hands tickling his hips and thighs, he stirs almost daily against his bed, face buried into the corner of his pillow as he gasps, writhing under the pressure of his own palm.  He is unabashedly vocal, the walls of his chambers echoing with the chorus of his cries—though not entirely without shame, he keeps their names suppressed in the hollow of his throat as if they were secrets.

The anticipation, however, is brimming beneath the surface, an endlessly unsatisfying edge to his pleasure begetting the curiosity of when they will actually have him—or if it will be a matter of Poe seeking and demanding their affection.  Will Pharaoh have him first, with teeth digging into skin, fingers knotted into hair, and all the gusto of a passionate tumble?  He finds a part of him hopes for it, for the weight of the man’s heart and desire to bear upon his mortal soul with something entirely otherworldly.  But then there is the thought of whether he will he have the honor of taking the Queen, of fitting into her and her into him, her warm hands on his face and his at her hips or breasts.

By the time he growls around a mouthful of linen, Pharaoh’s face painting the dark behind his eyes, his Queen’s lips a shadow against his throat, it has been twenty-two mornings since he came into their lives, freed of the pettiness of thievery. 

A blessed twenty-two it has been, indeed, and Poe has not forgotten his many prayers and words of thanks to the Gods for granting him such a second chance.  He rises each morning with whispers on his lips following the cries of selfish passions, and he falls into slumber having uttered another mouthful of gratitude—often in the gentility of being alone, or long after Maz and Finn have fallen asleep on either side of him. 

In these twenty-two days, though, the tilt in demeanor since stranger arrived has been noticed, acknowledged, and relentless.  Eight days since the man came into Poe’s steady routine, his unwavering coldness has only ever abated temporarily with occasional complaints of the heat waves, or of the vulnerability granted from the fine linens and lack of leathers.  More than once, Poe has offered to find another alternative, a comparable dress that would better suit his comfort, and protect his porcelain tone.  He resigns that he can’t be surprised to learn of the pale man’s stubbornness, the harsh wave of the hand followed by grunted curses in Latin that Poe, still stumbling through the murk of the language, only barely catches.

But he tries, at least, in the time they have together.  Advances are slow in the making, the handful of mornings and afternoons broken up with hours of courtship and learning from his king and Queen, but he aims to provide for his charge, even if the man acts more like a child—a temperament that only worsens with the stretching of the days.  He does his best to give the stranger room to feel at ease, to understand that the limestone walls and basins are not shackles or dungeons, that there is freedom to be gained in this place. 

Yet Poe cannot fault the man, either, and he would not want to.  Too fresh and overwhelming are his own reoccurring tremors when passing soldiers in the hall, the choking anxieties that bubble passed his throat, chatter his teeth, and wrack his body at some unseen but impending possibility that this—the luxury, the passion, everything—is an elaborately cruel and sardonic plot to humiliate him to the core. 

In the calm, overcast twenty-third morning, the ninth since the stranger’s arrival, Poe sups a light meal of dates, dried fruits, and fish with the man, words hushed in favor of food.  He takes the opportunity to observe, even admire the collected way the man’s pale fingers clutch the morsels, arranging left over seeds in neat lines to his right, fishbones to the left.  And while the sight of his hunger being satisfied pleases Poe, the heavy and bruise-like shadows beneath his eyes do not.

Still, it dawns on him that there is so very little he truly _knows_ of the other man.  So he chews thoughtfully on his fruit, swallowing slowly as he looks down into the portions remaining in his bowl.

“Where do you hail?”  He asks, words bridging this side of hesitant, softer than he means even in the lull of the room.  The stranger does not look at him; this is noticeable even in Poe’s peripheral.

“Not from here.”  The man says flatly, slipping another sliver of fish between his teeth.

“I could not have guessed,” Poe cuts dryly, raising a bushy brow towards the pale-faced man seated on the pillows opposite of him.  Still, he is not regarded.  “North of here, I assume?”

There is a heartbeat, and then two, of silence. 

“Do you _need_ to assume?”

Poe bites his tongue, breath coming hard and sharp from his nose.

“I know of the islands and the cities laid into the shore and cliffside.  Are you from there?”

“Along that line, yes.”  The man is _relentless,_ and Poe’s frustration only further thickens and grows. 

“I cannot provide the means to make life even marginally comfortable if you do not indulge in a few _simple_ details regarding your homeland.  Athenian?  Spartan?  Another?”  Poe hisses quietly, his temper flaring hot under his skin, heart pounding heavily as he meets the man’s eyes.  A dark and, almost, insulted gaze seems to penetrate the depths of his soul, as if burning an opening through his body to see the very truth of his intent, and cause trauma for the slights Poe must have, unknowingly, dealt. 

“Mycenae,” the stranger says at last, as if the very utterance causes him grief.  Not Athenian or Spartan.  He can be assured such suggestions were the insult.  “Knossos, to be exact.”

“I am unfamiliar with it,” Poe admits quietly, earning a snort that is not quite disgruntled, though hardly amused.

“A Mycenean fortress sits there, upon an island between my shore and yours.”  Another breath leaves him as the man continues on, his words clipped and carefully chosen, before the fish is devoured and fruit left to chase the taste of the sea. 

“What brings a man from a fortress to the sands?”  Poe tries, earning damned silence once more.  “Soldier?  Prisoner?  Just a wanderer?”

Black eyes burn his face, and he swallows his tongue. 

Sliding a bite of his own fish between his teeth, Poe chews and swallows carefully, staring down across their table spread, the remnants of their meal beginning to thin as time moves on.  Though seasoned and sweet, much of the flavor loses its grace along his tongue, becoming nothing but mush and slick as it slides down his throat.  Even in these moments where the stranger has relented to Poe’s questioning, the number of _unknowns_ stands to be remarkable at best, and terrifying at worst.

No doubt his frame, the lashes and scars, paint the man’s history with the brush of militia.  Brute training of artillery and warfare coloring the lines that splice his back and brand missing chunks from between his shoulders, for what other occupation could exist and cause such agony to the human body?  What path could a man take that houses him in an offsite fortress from his homeland, if not one that leads into dedicated service?  Nevertheless, the reality that further harassment will only be met with glowering stares (at the very _least_ ) leaves Poe in a fitful and uncomfortable silence.

Still, there is much in the way of his curiosity that refuses to yield to better sense, even given the circumstances.  Inhaling deeply, he remarks differently of the man, suggesting to present stature rather than a mission and a history that, for now, must remain secret. 

“Did you sleep?  Last night?”  Poe asks, tentative at revealing his intensive staring before his questioning.

The man pauses, fruit inches from his full lips.  A tremor there dances along fingers, making the wedge shake before the piece disappears into the dark wet of the mouth.  A response will require a second of reprieve, and Poe feels the hefty twang of impatience rattling between his lungs and his ribs.

“Yes,” it comes at last, and the hesitation gives Poe enough room for doubt, but it’s the flat tone to a voice he has come to recognize as melodically baritone that confirms his fears.

“If you’re not resting, I can—”

“I am fine.”  It is snapped, rough around the edges, with an impenetrable gaze locking once more to his face.  Poe swallows thickly around nothing but a faulting tongue. 

“I’m trying to help.  Let me.”

Hard and dark eyes—lighter than Pharaoh’s, flecked with honey and amber—find his, the set of a jaw intended to intimidate as he sees the muscle twitch and stretch, a vein presenting itself along the thick side of the throat.  But Poe is tired, and spent, the threads of his patience wearing thinner than aged papyrus.  For all this attempts at gentility, at compassionate friendliness, this stranger tries and tries again to push him away, to make every moment as unbearable as it possibly can be.  His hand curls against his lap under the spread of their table, nails biting into his palm as he holds the man’s gaze for a heartbeat—two—three—

“I have no need of your help.”

“Who _else_ would provide it?”

It is harsh, and the twitch of cheek, the gaze flicked and turning downcast for less than a breath twists in Poe’s gut hotter, and sharper, than he cares to admit.  An honest thing that he immediately regrets, and he makes no effort to conceal the heavy breath that leaves him.

“That wasn’t needed.  I’m sorry.”  Poe muses, fist still clenched, more for his own admonishing remarks than anything this pale man beside him could say or do.

Met with telltale silence, Poe purses his lips and stands at once, the force of his motion nearly knocking the small set up beside him over.  “Forgive me for my disturbing questions.  For now, I have duties to attend to.  Should you need anything of me, I’ll be free, and in my rooms, later this afternoon.”

He goes without objection.  The stranger does not find him after.

It can be considered a needed reprieve as the twenty-fifth day carries heavy, churning storm clouds and cool breezes, the promise of rainfall expected with the impending arrival of the moon to wash away the wrath of the summer.  From the comforts of shelter at the outer palace walls, he can see the villa in the dusty distance, can recall from his own fond memories the merchants and wise mothers setting out hardened clay pots and bowls to collect the rainfall with superstitions and prayers of healing waters.  The thanks of waking up to filled cups and soft mud, cool where the sun has not touched, still ring pleasant in his mind.

He allows a smile to grace his demeanor, and sets his own bowl outside of his chamber.

With the wake of familiarity, it is still a dizzying circumstance to rise each morning without a burdening necessity to lay out his meager wares and offerings to make a living, though the breaking of morning light interrupts his sleep and his dreams as readily as it always has.  Perhaps the first handful of days free of responsibility proved to be luxurious, the itch of restlessness has long since crept and clung to Poe’s bones, a need to do _more_ festering beneath his skin like a sickness.  And, while the added ‘company’ of the Latin-speaking stranger provides ample opportunity do and be more than just a pleasure servant, it is not enough.

In the earliness of this twenty-fifth day, the stranger still has not sought him out, nor has Poe made much beyond the effort of bringing food to converse with the Northerner.  Instead, he wanders to the library, grateful that the north-facing walls and pillars are out of line from the sun’s rays, which still blister and scorch even through thick clouds.  The chamber is, astonishingly, empty, leaving Poe to trail up the aisles of shelves and chests alone, the space so vast not even his footsteps reverberate off the nearest walls. 

So simple, it is, to busy himself with political retellings of past generations, policies and guidelines that governed the people leading up to the fine rule of his king—far from myths and legends, or children’s stories, like he is used to finding among the villa’s sparse contents.  The challenge is enough to engage his older and curious mind, a necessity in these trying times of not being quite so fulfilled by his lovers, and shunned by his charge.  He contemplates keeping them tucked under his arm for further examination, even if he gets enough lecture from Pharaoh or the Queen to last him—if nothing else, the material will surely serve to ease him to sleep.

Crossing around another bend of shelves, he keeps his pace languid and light, the stones cool beneath his bare feet as he scans pressed inscriptions detailing each catalogued piece in front of him.  Most of the offered articles are aged, their edges crinkled and worn from use, though there are a handful that are fresh, smelling thick of ink and dyes and wax to seal them, adorned in bright colored ribbons for extra embellishment.  They are beautiful, truly, and even if there are none whose writings inspire a closer look, Poe allows his fingers to trace the edges of paper and ribbon, feeling the breadth of power and knowledge under his touch, evermore grateful that he is one of few poor men who knows how to read.

It is moving down along this line that he catches himself perplexed by a word that translates roughly on tongue and in mind.  Pausing briefly, he blinks a few times before it dawns that the scriptures have changed, the alphabet having progressed from Coptic to Roman, that the very language, indeed, shifts in his mind.  Finding scrolls and pamphlets pressed with Latin dialect and histories, his mind wanders briefly to the stranger, whose hardened eyes and pale face he has not seen this day.  The bitterness of their last meeting two days prior still sours his tongue, and Poe sighs deeply, his shoulders aching as they sag.

It was unfair of him to speak so unkindly, even if the man’s bristling behavior had plucked and pinched the last traces of Poe’s patience.  Thrust into a land and law unfamiliar and unrelenting in expectation, the man has every right to want to fend for himself.  And, given the nature of scars, the physique far more dominating and chiseled than even some of the best soldiers of Pharaoh’s guard, Poe must only assume that a militant background plagues the man.  To feel otherwise helpless at the hands of another is, surely, taxing enough.

Swallowing slowly, Poe reaches up and trails his fingers over the scrolls, a few of them heavy and large, wrapped tight around iron rods bearing a thin layer of dust.  He had seen a handful in the villa, lofty traders and merchants from foreign lands across the seas having kept them so close one might have wondered if the papyrus was stitched to their hands.  Humming quietly, he reaches for one, huffing under its weight before bringing it down onto a nearby table, where he unrolls it slowly.

A ledger of political lineage, the writing is small and evenly spaced, written with a precision that puts Poe’s heart into his mouth at the idea of touching something so fine.  The ink is faded in a few spots, the lettering archaic compared to what he is used to.  But a handful of moments and a few frustrated sighs later, he feels confident in the basic understanding.  Surely, it will take time, but he makes a mental note of its place, before rolling it up proper and returning it to the shelf.  A plume of dust rises into the open air, sparkling in the sunlight and tickling his nose.

Wandering the aisle further, he stumbles across other smaller scrolls, and he loosens his tongue over the text, mumbling softly the words and passages until they are gentle and kind to him.  He mulls over poems and myths until he can recite them with ease, ignoring the dipping light beyond the columns until he must, at last, carrying a bowl of oil and an ashen wick, the flame casting shadows and dancing shimmers of warmth. 

It matters not, truly, the passing of this time, or the fading day from the wide arches across the library.  What matters to him is that he has this opportunity to read, to practice dialect and language until it flows with tenderness off his tongue, rich and common as breathing.  The bowl is warm in his palm, his eyes following pressed ink and gentle scrawl for hours, and hours, until he has read at least a dozen or more scrolls in their entirety. 

Cradling an armload of materials under his left elbow, and clutching the bowl that tingles his palm with its heat in his right, Poe takes tentative and measured steps through the library, a gust of wind chilling the sweat in his hairline, shivers racing down his spine.  If he must be truthful, he had not intended to stay so late, but the texts had kept him in constant rapture, and now with the fading glow from his flame serving as his only guide, he slips between the rows of shelves until he, at last, sees the threshold of the library that leads to the hall.

Again his thoughts return to the stranger; where once bitterness might have soured his tongue, there is only concern.  Has the man eaten?  Has he bathed today?  Will he be in need of more blankets now that the winds are whipping beyond the stones and in the dark of the distant desert?

Barely a handful of steps away, another glow catches his attention from beyond the arch, the flames of a torch licking the open air and burning bright as Pharaoh comes into view.

“There you are,” he breathes, and Poe feels a stirring under his skin as he shifts his materials.

“Forgive me, _Neb-i_ , I appear to have gotten distracted and did not notice the day slipping by.”  Another gust of wind billows through his hair and his _shendyt_ , the fire of Pharaoh’s torch flickering while Poe’s small oil-lamp is snuffed at once. 

“There is nothing to forgive, Poe.  Maz and I were concerned, though—the winds are howling out beyond the villas, and gaining vigor with every hour.”

Humming, Poe nods once in understanding beneath the low light, gingerly abandoning the hot oil on a small table before following Pharaoh into the hall. 

“I didn’t mean to keep you,” he admits, shifting his load into both arms, relinquishing a pleased sigh.  “Have you supped?”

“Not yet.  We wanted to wait for you.”

Poe tastes his heartbeat, and is grateful that the flickering firelight camouflages the heat that floods his cheeks.  Even still, his sandals catch on an edge of stone, and he lingers in place near the library’s open door.

“What have you there, _imi-ib_?”  Pharaoh asks.

“Latin histories and stories.”  Poe breathes, catching Pharaoh’s inquisitive eye.

“No doubt for our guest, I assume?  Maz and I have yet to see to him, unfortunately.  Have you?”  Pharaoh’s voice is light and gentle, and Poe swallows thickly around the heavy thumping of his pulse.

“Not today, no.  We had a disagreement the other day, and I’m afraid I haven’t seen to him since.”  He admits, looking to the dark shadows that billow across the open stone, the firelight flickering as another gust of wind comes careening through the hall.

He thinks of that, then; his words that he is perhaps the only person here who will help the burly man, who will care and tend for him, resonate in the back of his mind, colder now, and far less kind than is his nature.  Something like guilt gnaws at the concern hollowing his gut, and Poe sighs heavily as he hesitates in the open hall.

At his side, Pharaoh shifts, and glances his way. “Is everything all right?” 

Adjusting the scrolls once more, Poe takes a moment to mull over the question as the papyrus crinkles against his skin.  Willing his feet, he walks with Pharaoh again, keeping pace beside his king. 

“I believe I’m the only one willing to aid him, and yet I have not seen to him.  I allowed myself to become indignant following the less than positive nature of our conversation, and as such I have neglected him for two days.  I worry, of course, but…  The man is stubborn, undoubtedly born and bred of a mindset that he must be his own sole caretaker, and thus struggles to relinquish to anything, or anyone, else.  He has been rather reluctant to accept my assistance, but I am trying.” 

“He is rather brutish, isn’t he?”  Pharaoh muses, and Poe huffs softly.

“Aren’t all soldiers?”

“What makes you say he is a soldier?” 

Frowning, Poe raises a brow to the man beside him, ignoring the warm and heady glow of the firelight in the king’s rich brown eyes.  “Is it not obvious?  The man is built like a warhorse, and acts just as stubborn.  I’ve not seen him fight, but if the squabble in the markets was as bad as the guards claim, then he must be trained.  What conversation I did manage to have before we parted ways, he admitted to hailing from a fortress on an island.  Further, his skin has been lacerated to such an extent it’s a wonder he has it at all.  Surely you saw them?”

“I did,” Pharaoh breathes, offering a faint, if not sad, smile.  “I don’t doubt you.  I merely wanted your opinion, _imi-ib._ ”

“Then what am I to _do_ , _Neb-i?_ ”  Poe insists, another brush of cool night air slicing under his _shendyt_ , chilling him down to his bones.  “He is… arrogant, brash, unyielding to anything I try to do for him.  I know enough of his language to accommodate one barrier, and am trying to smooth the edges.  But he doesn’t trust me, or anyone.  Yet he cannot care for himself—the other guards won’t let him.  The moment he attempts to leave, they’ll attack him, and you know it.”

For a long while, Pharaoh remains silent, only the wind and the flickering of his torch answering Poe’s needs.  Sighing softly, Poe shimmies the scrolls and leaflets against his chest once more, the halls bleeding by with their script and their softness.  In the far distance of the night sky, he can see the trimmed outlines of sand dunes against rich purples and near blacks, a few points of light dotted high into the air.

Glancing down to the floor, Poe shakes his head.

“Forgive me, _Neb-i,_ I know you do not favor his presence.  But I cannot abandon him.”

“I know you cannot, _imi-ib_ , I am not asking you to,” Pharaoh breathes.  Poe tips his head, glancing to the darkened man at his side.  “What you must understand about soldiers is that their lives are… difficult.  Different from yours, and I recognize you’ve been at the mercy of hands that have wronged you; for that, I am sorry.  For many of them, it is simply learned, and brutishly enforced.”

Remaining silent, Poe watches Pharaoh’s face as the eyes harden in the wavering orange light. 

“Some of them came from masters who treated them poorly.  For others, their commanders are no better than masters, no better than monsters with whips.  I put faith and instruction into my men to be diligent in discipline, but not abusive.  This is not the case for everyone.  Someone in our guest’s position has likely not been so fortunate.  He will have been trained, conditioned, to care for himself, and his fellow men, without the assistance of anyone else.  It will take time, _imi-ib_ , but I have faith in you.  So long, of course, that he does not threaten or hurt you.”

At this, Poe snorts softly, and shakes his head.  Pharaoh’s eyes harden further, the bow of his mouth curving down into a hard frown.

“Laugh as you might, I am serious, Poe.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Poe breathes, glancing to Pharaoh with a pleasant, and reassuring, smile.  “I know.”

Half in shadow, the fullness of Pharaoh’s lips and the high curve of his cheek look far more regal, gold accents at his collar and brow glittering brilliantly as wind clips between a pair of pillars and teases the edge of the flaming torch.  A seizure clutching briefly within his chest, Poe pauses in the open hall for a moment, reaching out to lay a hand against Pharaoh’s shoulder.  It means holding his scrolls tighter in his one arm, but it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make.

“You worry too much.”  Poe observes, smiling as Pharaoh covers his hand, and brings it to his face.

“Of course, I do.  You can’t fault me for concerning myself with your well-being.”

“I don’t.  Were I you, I’d do the same.”

Earning a smile, Poe tastes Pharaoh’s mouth against his own before he can blink, the warmth of his kiss seeping beneath his skin as another gust of wind sweeps between the columns, whirling around their bodies.  He presses closer, scrolls tucked against his chest as he feels Pharaoh’s hand move to his lower back, the other carefully keeping the torch away from their shoulders. 

The kiss, itself, is sweet, bordering upon a tender edge that Poe has only experienced a handful of times, and often when Pharaoh’s passions are strongest.  In it is a weight that slips under Poe’s skin, burrowing past muscle and bone into a place that holds no corporeal essence, but instead is something very airy and pure.  He sighs into Pharaoh’s mouth, his hand sliding from Pharaoh’s cheek to the back of his neck.

Fingers trace their way along his spine, deft and delicate, leaving tremors in their wake that break Poe’s breath between his teeth, and he smiles into Pharaoh’s lips.  His moan is quiet, bubbling with a shiver as the papyrus rolls crinkle between their chests, the flame of the torch casting shadows. 

“Come,” Pharaoh whispers, the word itself buzzing over his lip.  “Maz is waiting for us.  See to him in the morning.”

Nodding, Poe takes his hand, ignoring the beat in his heart that says _No_ before lacing their fingers as he’s guided down the hall.

The southern rotunda is a blessed and beautiful sight, glowing with dim gold light as they pass through the painted arched.  Pharaoh tucks his torch into a basin, letting another wash of firelight blaze to life, oil hissing quietly in the bowels of the basin, the flush of heat casting flickering shadows across the wall.  Away from the pit of pillows and throws that he is used to seeing her in, Poe turns his head to find the Queen lying across a massive bed, tucked into the recess of the far wall.  Laying upon furs and pillows, she is bare, wigless, cleaned of makeup, and shimmering with a thin layer of body oil.

His mouth waters, cheeks tingling faintly as Pharaoh plucks the scrolls from his arms and sets them aside.  There are words of supping, of a meal forgotten and intentionally circumvented before a mouth caresses his jaw, and he turns his head, a sinful glint in Pharaoh’s darkened eyes as the man nods toward the bed.  “Go to her.”

“Wicked man,” Poe teases quietly, earning a nip to his earlobe. 

Obliging is simple enough, and Poe finds himself laughing faintly as Pharaoh’s hand catches the belt holding his _shendyt_ in place, the linens falling away from his hips and legs as he walks.  Once he might have felt a surge of modesty claim him, warming and staining his face and throat; now, there is only delight, and a quiet pulsing between his lungs as he moves away from his king.  Stripping what jewels and other accessories he bothered with that morning, letting them fall upon fur and pillow, Poe crosses the warm stone flooring, footsteps nearly silent as he crawls onto the edge of the bed to his Queen.

From a distance she had been radiant, but up close she is a dream bared before him. Opening to him, his Queen’s eyes are dark and gleaming from the nearby firelight, her hand finding the back of his head as she draws him in for a slow kiss.  Moaning softly, his fingers slide along her hip, tongue flicking briefly beyond the seam of her lips to taste wine and fruit indulged while her husband fetched her lover, her hums of satisfaction vibrating under his skin.  _She is divine_ , he thinks, her fingers tangling gently into the peppered curls of his hair as he presses closer to her, relishing in the gentle and comforting heat of her skin.

Breathing her in, Poe feels the bed shift beneath his knees, a warm and wide hand sliding along his lower back as he settles between the Queen’s thighs.  A moan purrs in his throat, buzzing from Poe’s lips to hers as Pharaoh’s hand teases between his shoulder blades, pulling him back just a touch.

Whining quietly, Poe misses her lips at once before he shifts on his knees, glancing back in time to see Pharaoh’s hand reaching around to cup his cheek, bringing him in for a soft, angled kiss.  Pharaoh’s lips are fuller, wider than his Queen’s, and he melts into this kiss just as much as he’s melted into all the others before it.  Reaching back, his palm cups around the back of Pharaoh’s neck, fingers teasing up into the plush curls of thick hair at the back of his head.

They are perfect, he muses, moaning as a mouth closes around his nipple.  His free hand twitches, coming to cradle his Queen’s hip, her fingers digging and scraping along his thighs as Pharaoh peppers his shoulders in kisses and bites.

“ _Gods_ ,” Poe curses softly, hissing momentarily as the Queen drags her teeth over his nipple.  Dark, broad hands circle around his front, splaying across his abdomen as she opens her eyes, looking up at him as her lips mold around the bud, pulling gently with white teeth.

“You want her,” Pharaoh’s voice purrs into his ear, rumbling quietly.  It is not a question, barely more than a suggestion; it is stated as fact, and Poe moans again.  Before him, the Queen moves to suckle on his other nipple.  “Have her.”

“ _Neb-i_ ,” Poe sighs, arching into his Queen’s mouth again, a gasp tearing from his throat, eyes fluttering, as her hand curls around his interested cock.  “ _Nebet-i…_ ”

“ _Have_ her,” Pharaoh insists again, and Poe glances down to watch as his Queen pulls away from his skin with a wet _pop_ , her hand pumping once—twice—before she lays back, legs spread.  “She’s ready for you.”

She is—he can see it.  There is a wetness to her cunt, her dark fingers teasing her folds as his mouth waters once more, a flash of pink glimmering with wetness.  Had she prepared while Pharaoh came and fetched him?  Had they been wanting this while waiting for his return, intent upon seducing him the moment he stepped beyond the veil of their chambers?  Shivering, he moans as Pharaoh plants another warm, heavy kiss to the back of his neck, hands pushing him forward over his Queen once more. 

Slipping between her thighs, Poe skims a kiss along her collarbone, licking a stripe up her throat before claiming her lips with his own, a hand coming to rest on her hip.  For a breath—or two, he is uncertain—he just kisses her, exhaling into her as the winds howl beyond the arches of the rotunda.  Distant screams of the gods, or perhaps chaotic and endearing cries to mimic that of the passion he will soon express.  Light flashes behind the dark of his eyes, and a roll of thunder comes crashing through.

His hand tightens against her hip, carving a path down along her thigh as he draws her leg up to his waist.  A tremor dances from her body into his, skittering to the cacophonous symphony that rages beyond the pillars of the room.  Bringing his free hand to his cock, he takes hold of himself, breaking the kiss long enough to look down and guide himself to her.

And if he had been told a full moon cycle ago that this is where he would be—that, instead of bartering in dirty villa streets, he would be sharing a bed with nobility, bathed in their affection and luxury—he might have laughed.

Worse, he might have considered it only a future granted by dark magics.

The warmth of Pharaoh’s hands returns to his skin, fingers brushing along his spine, the weight of his king’s body against his own.  Moaning, Poe presses to his Queen, watching her eyes as they darken, hungry and fiery, in search of pain.  Pharaoh had assured that she was _ready_ , but he takes care to make the first moments slow, delicate, filling her inch by inch until her nails are digging into his sides, lips pulled back in a soft snarl as she demands for _more_.

“ _Have her_ ,” Pharaoh presses, leaving Poe to feel a weight, thick, hot and pulsing against the back of his thigh, and he _moans_.

 

* * *

 

He wakes early the next morning, thankfully pressed to his Queen’s back instead of his usual position between the nation’s rulers.  On her other side, Pharaoh is sound asleep, his head tipped back against the curve of his arm, wide and black chest rising and falling with slow and full breath.  For a moment he does nothing but watch his lovers sleep, their faces slack and peaceful their breathing in time as surely as their hearts are, as well.  Smiling, Poe inches forward and presses a sweet kiss to his Queen’s shoulder, feeling her stir only slightly, before she is curling into Pharaoh’s side.

Slipping away, he stands from the wide bed, naked and flushed from the night before.  A soreness radiates from his thighs to his back, a few flushed lines carved into his hips and shoulders from nails and teeth.  Swallowing his laughter, he crosses the floor and scoops up his discarded, crumpled _shendyt_ , tying it silently.  A quick glance over his shoulder shows that his lovers remain at rest, their eyes closed, bodies pressed together, unaware of the empty space his absence leaves behind. 

Gathering the scrolls and pamphlets he had brought, Poe ducks between the curtains of the rotunda, making his way across the palace to his chambers in the eastern wing.  Morning light streams through clouds of grey, pale white washing across limestone, sandstone, and paint.  Chillier than normal, he feels gooseflesh prickle to life across his arms and shoulders, and he moves quickly down the great and wide corridors.

It takes time, but eventually he passes through the veil leading into his rooms, finding his bedding unmade from the day before, his table and pots undisturbed.  Humming, Poe sets aside the scrolls that have grown heavy and unbearable upon a nearby table, their papers crinkling quietly before they settle and fall silent once more.  He needs a bath, fresh clothes, fresh paint perhaps…

He also needs to find that man.

Making swift work of his cleaning, Poe scrubs himself with _swabu_ , letting it foam in his hairline and along his hands before rinsing and drying off.  He should use the tack, or one of the edged stones for the hair that is slowly creeping in along his jaw and his legs, but it is not so long yet that he feels the need to concern himself with it.  For now, he will settle with dressing in a _shendyt_ of a heavier material, the linen dyed a rich and bold shade of crimson, beaded with yellow and orange glass, the belt woven with braided leathers and gold. 

A touch of kohl around his eyes is all the cosmetic that he bothers with, running his hands through his still damp hair until it hangs in thick curls around his skull, tickling his ears and the nape of his neck.  Satisfied, Poe foregoes the sandals in favor of feeling the stones beneath his feet as he ducks through the veil separating his rooms from the hall.  The Northerner’s room is just down and around the corner from his, yet there is a tickle between his ribs that spreads up through his spine and to the back of his head that whispers _you’ll not find him there._

Still, he tries, quietly announcing himself before pulling back the curtains separating the spaces.  Sure enough, the made is made, seemingly untouched.  A plate of half-eaten food has been left on the steps, a few pillows dotted around, but no stranger.  Frowning, Poe pulls away, glancing up and down the corridor once more.

_Were I soldier in an unfamiliar land, where might I go if I felt I could not flee?_

He keeps his pace light, taking time to enjoy the quiet of the morning as he passes two patrols of guardsmen, bowing his head in respect to their work and station.  A breath of relief floods his chest when they do not regard him with contempt, and Poe continues on toward the west, passed the path that would take him to the gardens, or the library. 

The morning is not quite so bright on this half, the great palace walls blocking what little sunlight breaches through the thick of clouds.  There is enough to pass between pillars, looking out across the sand to see a great and open field.  Plowed and smoothed out for training, there are targets for javelins, marked-off sections for sword play and training, and a sunken pit watered from the river for martial fighting.  A number of off-duty guardsmen and soldiers are out here already, running or stretching, or sparring in quick bouts of combat with one another. 

Nearby, closer to the palace walls and less toward the training ground, Poe sees the Northerner sitting upon a smoothed stone, shoulders hunched, scars pulled taut and angry across his back.  Deep craters weave where Poe imagines the spaces between his ribs are, a spider’s web of thin and puckered lines creeping along his spine, to a splash of pale pink and gnarled flesh that encompasses the entirety of the man’s shoulder, disappearing into the thick weave of hair that touches the top of his back.  The _shendyt_ he wears is still the same one Poe last saw him in, sand and dust clinging to the man’s bare feet and legs, and an ever-familiar gust of shame steals his breath, both from staring at and neglecting the man.

 _I need to work on this_.

Stepping down and sinking some into the sand, Poe walks across the short lip, the stranger seeming to bear him no mind beyond straightening his back, and sitting tall.  The scars do not pull quite so aggressively now, and Poe moves gingerly to the side furthest from the most gruesome of discoloring.

Coming to stand beside the rock, silence falls between them save for the distant sounds of shouting, fighting, and training, clouds continuing to roll overhead with the grace of a cool morning breeze.  One of Pharaoh’s better generals running a strict routine, a few clashes of swords, and a quiet _thump_ of a javelin finding purchase in a wrapped bushel of dried and useless wheat.

“Glad I know where to find you when you’re not in the palace,” Poe tries, an effort to make light conversation perhaps in vain and fruitless, but it is one he makes nonetheless.  The stranger continues to stare toward the training ground, full lips pursed into a straight line, hands resting in his lap.  Massive things, his hands, fingers not quite as long as Pharaoh’s, though the palms are thick, far rougher than even his own.

Sighing quietly, Poe glances down to the sand beneath his feet, the warm grain and crushed rock like powder under his toes.  “I feel as though I keep saying this, and yet make little effort in changing, but… I do apologize for what I said to you, and that I couldn’t even be bothered to ensure you had food, or a change of linen.  I recognize this is all unfamiliar to you, and while I claim I’m the only one who will help, in truth I’ve done very little to _actually_ help.”

This time the stranger shifts, his head tilting but an inch in Poe’s direction, one dark eye finding Poe’s face.  _He’s listening, at least._

“There is only so much that I _can_ do, though, if you remain hesitant to be patient with me.  I may be of this nation, but being _here_ , in the palace, is just as strange to me as it is to you.”  He continues, holding the man’s gaze as much as he can before the Northerner is glancing away, his attention seemingly back toward the training ground across the sands. 

Exhaling deeply, Poe cards a hand through his hair, an unspoken prayer for conviction and patience of his own.  “What is it you would need to feel, at least, some modicum of comfort, or normalcy, here?”

It must be a full minute at least before the Northerner speaks.  “That.”

Blinking once, Poe looks from the man toward the training ground.  Something specific therein must have captured his attention—an aspect to sparring, or to fighting with another soldier, another individual whose strength could match his own—

_No._

_He wants to_ train.

_Of course._

Poe inhales slowly, nodding a little as he watches the other soldiers, grey light gleaming off sweat and mud-slicked skin.  “I can… I can speak with the Queen, and with Pharaoh.  I have no doubt they can arrange that for you, without any discontent from the other guardsmen or—”

“I care not for the opinions or _discontent_ of the other soldiers,” the man cuts, his gaze finding Poe again.  “To train again is what I want.”

Breathing slowly, Poe looks to the field again, and nods.

“I’ll speak with them.  Today, even, if you’d like?”

The man hums once, but says nothing more. 

For a moment there is only the morning breeze, the distant sounds of commands being given, bouts of shouting followed by familiar laughter.  Swallowing the lump his heart creates in his throat, Poe eases himself against the rock next to the stranger, missing the flash of the Northerner’s eyes at coming so close.  Had he seen, he would have found a look of surprise, and not quite as much malice as what would be expected.

“I still don’t know your name,” Poe says at last, watching two dark-skinned men brawl naked through damp sand and mud, arms seizing each other around torsos and hips, feet carving trenches into the muck. 

“Yours is as unknown to me.”

He chuckles flatly, shaking his head.  “I suppose it is, isn’t it?”

The stranger casts him a glance, and remains speechless.

“My name is Poe,” it is only slightly frustrated, coming off with a gentle huff before he is forcing a small and apologetic smile for the attitude.  Met with a long and unreadable stare, Poe has to bite his tongue to keep emotion and insistence in check as those dark eyes rake over his face, as if scouring for some reason to find dishonesty in the answer.

“Poe,” the man repeats, baritone voice bearing his name with ease. 

“Yes.”

The Northerner regards him with a look, shy of amused perhaps, and turns away.

Defeat blossoms in Poe’s chest, coloring the tanned skin a dusky shade of pink as he lowers his gaze to the sands.  Truthfully, he should not be surprised that the man would trick him into sharing his name and then not offer his own.  After all, Poe had berated him for more information than probably was his due just a few days before, after being less than courteous as he claimed to be. 

No, if this is what the man needs to feel any sense of place in this unwelcoming environment, he cannot allow even a shred of bitterness cloud him.  His name will provide familiarity, and Poe can only hope that with an approved request from his lovers, the opportunity to train and fight will beget further amicable interaction.  Until he has earned the rest, he will be satisfied with what he has been granted—a look that is not brimming with as much hostility and distrust as the last many days. 

Swallowing slowly, Poe shifts against the stone, an edge of it digging grimly against his thigh, before he pushes off of it all together.  “Are you hungry?”

“I could eat.”  The Northerner says, not looking from the field. 

“Would you like to come with me, or I can bring food out here to you?”  Poe tries, tilting his head a little to try and catch the man’s eye.

“That would be preferable.”  It is, as ever, unsuccessful.

“I’ll return shortly, then,” he sighs, turning to walk away.  His feet sink in the sands, but his pace is even and quick, his heart thumping erratically in his chest.

Walking back into the palace and finding solid stone once more is a relief, his legs steadying with each step as he makes his way down the east-bound corridors, before turning southward for the gardens, and the stock rooms.  Fresh fruits and salted fish will be light enough, as his stomach is presently twisting itself into a series of knots not unlike those belonging to the boats he sees careening along the rivers’ waters.

Breathless, he raises a hand to trail his fingers along the smooth, painted palace walls, a rush of uncertainty clinging to his chest, sinking ragged nails into his collar and coiling around his throat.  What manner of possession seizes him remains unknown, yet as he rounds the corner and sees the distant light of the gardens, a breeze fancies the flush of his skin and cools it with a kiss.

 _Time_ , he tells himself, sparing a glance over his shoulder even though the training grounds are far out of sight by now.  _This will take time.  Be patient_.

Patience is a terrible virtue.

Chancing the gardens first, Poe glances among the ponds and trees, most of the arrangement for aesthetic appeal, but the outer edges are of a more practical variety.  He finds a small woven basket, filling it with a few pomegranates and figs, as well as a melon to share.  With the season of harvest in its prime, the fruits are ripe and perfect for plucking and picking.  Sweet and watery flesh will be cooling as the day begins to warm, and the seeds can be stored for the next planting.

The stock room is just beyond the lip of a cool pond, and inside Poe finds salted fish, raw and intended for cooking.  Humming, he takes a dried papyrus leaf and wraps it around two slabs of fish, scales and head already cut and shucked away.  Tucking them down into the basket, Poe sees the glint of a blade on a nearby shelf.  Taking that, too, he dips back into the open air of the gardens, the early morning beginning to break into a warm and overcast day.

There are a couple of cucumbers ready for picking, and so he snatches one from the garden bed, leaving behind a few light footprints through soil and sand as he makes his way back to the training ground.

It takes less time to return, and the Northerner is still sitting on the stone, back straight and eyes unblinking. 

“Here,” Poe says, leaning against the stone once more, passing the basket to the man.  A large, calloused and white hand slips inside the weaving, fingers tracing along the melon first before he pulls it free.  “I have a—”

He reaches for the blade, finding it gone from the basket and instead in the stranger’s hand.  Already he cuts into the fruit, slicing it with a practiced grace before he cleans the flats of the blade on his _shendyt_.  Poe blinks, watching in awe as the man holds out half of the fruit for him.

“Blade,” he finishes, meeting the man’s eyes.

“I am not blind.  Take it.”  The Northerner huffs.  Poe reaches out, and takes the melon half.

“Thank you.”

He does not get a response beyond the man biting savagely into the fruit, pulling the outer skin from between his teeth, scraped clean as he chews.  At first he can only stare as this brutish, hulking man in all senses _devours_ the fruit in his grasp, his eyes still locked on the training ground across the sands with an intensity that suggests analytical admiration and understanding.  Whether there is criticism or appreciation in the man’s thoughts, Poe in unsure. 

Tentatively biting into his own melon, he settles more comfortably against the stone and watches as well.  New routines are being exercised, new figures in the mud pit brawling with open palms and gritting teeth.  Fresh targets are laid out when the old ones are torn apart from too many spears and blades.  There is a servant boy darting across with a fresh sack to wrap the tangled and muddied wheat in, preparing a new target for the next line.

“Does it look anything like you’re familiar with?”  Poe asks, glancing to the man next to him as he takes another bite.

“Some,” the Northerner says after he swallows, dropping cleaned melon skins down into the basket, the fruit gone, the seeds collected neatly in the corner before he takes a pomegranate into his grasp.  Poe does not offer a suggestion of opening it, for the man does it without concern or question.

“Only some?” 

“The blades are different,” the man muses, favoring to pluck the seeds of the pomegranate from the flesh, dropping them into the corner of the basket where the melon seeds and skins are.  “Tactics are different.”

“How so?”  Poe inquires, raising a brow as he glances to the man at his side, before looking back to the field.

“It… it difficult to explain unless you have fought.  But,” the man tries, sighing as he watches.  “The soldiers here do not fight.  They dance.  In Mycenae, we _fight._ If sparring did not end in blood and bruising, then it is time wasted.  Our blades do not curve, they are straight, sharp, but they are not our primary weapon.  The spear is our favored, the shield use for defense.  Swords are for close combat.  A fight you did not settle with a blade is a fight you lost.”

Frowning some, Poe chews gingerly on his melon, swallowing slowly.  “I have only ever been in street brawls, often with other men, or guards.”

“It is very different from battle.  From war.”

“I can only imagine,” he says quietly, watching the soldiers across the field.  “What else do you make of their style, then?  How would they fare against Mycenean soldiers?”

“They would lose.”

“Comforting,” he breathes, before placing his melon skins and seeds down upon the pile that the Northerner has already created.  “I am certain the Pharaoh would be pleased to hear of your honesty.”

“If he is a ruler of worth, he would consider a foreigner’s judgement of his soldiers.”

Poe opens, and closes, his mouth, sighing quietly before thinking better of his words. “And of the generals?  The commanders?  Those who train these men?”

The Northerner casts him a sideways glance, and Poe swears that there is a faint hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.  “They should train better.”

 

* * *

 

He finds his Queen later in the day after parting ways with the Northerner, lounging under the warm, late summer sun as it washes across the lip of a patio beyond the rotunda.  Dressed in a plain and sheer _kalasiris_ , she is a vision and a delight wrapped in a single soul, skin gleaming with oil as she soaks in the light.  Poe smiles as he walks across the stones, lingering in the arch between her space and that of her and Pharaoh’s chambers.

“You disappeared this morning,” she purrs, sitting up from the plethora of pillows she currently is sprawled along.  He hums faintly, stepping beyond the arch, the sun kissing his skin with a touch of heat and familiarity.

“I needed a bath, and to speak with our Northern guest,” Poe replies, smiling sweetly at her. 

His Queen laughs as well, shaking her head as she reaches for him, pulling him beside her against the pillows.  Curling into her embrace, Poe presses a gentle kiss to her jaw, her hand slipping up into his hair.  “Worry not, _imi-ib,_ I was merely making an observation.”

“It had been Finn’s suggestion,” he continues, nuzzling her cheek tenderly.  “Before we came back last night.  I was in the library for most of the day, he found me, and insisted that I leave the scrolls and my concerns for the Northerner to the morning.”

“Not a terrible suggestion,” she teases, and Poe chuckles quietly.

“No, but I do need to read the scrolls I borrowed, so that I may put them back lest I forget where they reside on the shelves.”  He sighs, running his hand along her hip, cupping it against her side beneath her breast.

“What did you borrow, _imi-ib_?”  His Queen inquires, her fingers stroking his curls tenderly. 

“Political histories, and legends.  Some scripts written in Coptic, in Latin,” he explains, staring up into the patches of blue sky that peek between wisps of grey.

“I have yet to resume my readings of Latin text,” the Queen murmurs, her fingers trailing along Poe’s scalp.  “Perhaps I will do that while Finn is away for diplomatic meetings.”

“You know Latin?”  He affirms, raising a brow up at her, his head resting against her shoulder. 

“Simple things,” she sighs, her fingers drawing circles against his scalp, his curls tangling in her touch.  The action itself is soothing, and Poe feels his eyes close before the darkness registers to him.  “Enough to make conversation, though nothing compelling.”

“I did not know.  I thought myself to be the only person who knew how, and who had any interest in speaking with our guest.  I think he would like it if you spoke to him,” he whispers, moaning quietly as her touch digs deeper, relief washing down through his bones.  “Thus far I am the only person to try, and my efforts have been less than exemplary.”

“It is a delicate thing to embrace a stranger when you, yourself, are still settling,” she insists, her voice closer now as he feels her lips brush his temple, his brow.  “Give it time, _imi-ib_ , and it will get better.”

 _Time,_ he thinks.  _Of course._

“I’ve yet to even learn his _name_ , _Nebet-i._ He has been a _guest_ here for nearly a fortnight and I don’t know his name.  I’ve learned he hails from Mycenae, a country across the sea, that he is a soldier.  He wants to train, but I fear that he will be met with opposition from the other soldiers, or from Pharaoh.”  The words come tumbling fast, the suddenness of apathy clinging to his bones as guilt churns painfully in his gut.  Above him, his Queen shushes him quietly, her lips skirting his temple once more, fingers stroking his hair.

“You worry too much, Poe,” he coos, and he snorts softly.

“Finn says the same.”

“Where do you suppose he gets such wisdom from?” 

He glances up to her, seeing a smirk pulling at her wide mouth.  Sighing, he turns in her arms, pressing close as he props himself onto his elbow.  Leaning in, he kisses her sweetly, her hand in his hair, his body shielding hers from the sun and the rolling clouds. 

Her touch tightens and tugs, and he pulls back with a gasp.

“Enough of these concerns, Poe,” she presses, her eyes dark and yet compassionate as she smiles at him.  “If the man wishes to give his name, he’ll give it in time.  If he wants to train, he may.  Finn told me of your observation of him—if he’s indeed a soldier, he’ll be able to handle himself.  We’ll encourage the guardsmen to give him space, to treat him with welcome regard instead of a hostile.  He’s a guest, as you said.  We will treat him as such.”

“Thank you,” Poe whispers, lips skirting against hers in another gentle kiss.  “Would you meet with him?  Having another soul to speak with besides myself might motivate him to find comfort here?”

His Queen smiles brightly, nodding slowly.  “I would be happy to, _imi-ib_.  You are a persistent and brave man, and your ambition is not misplaced.  We will do what we can to bolster your efforts in reaching out to this man, whether to aid him for a journey home or to make him a permanent member of our house.”

“I am indebted to you,” Poe breathes, and the Queen smirks, a glimmer in her eye that warms his blood.

“I will take payment from your lips.”  She teases, easing him down for another kiss.

 

* * *

 

Pharaoh leaves early that next morning, imparting farewell kisses to the Queen and to Poe both before slipping away, his _shendyt_ of animal pelt and gold proud and bold against the dark of his flesh.  Intricate sandals with painted leather cling to his feet and calves, heavy gold bangles and bracelets clinking lightly around his wrists and throat.  With heavy cosmetic painted across his eyes, his lips, he tastes of pigment and powder, and Poe feels a strange swelling of sorrow between his lungs as he watches the man disappear across the throne room and out of the main hall, flanked by his best generals. 

 _A political meeting further south_ , he had promised between tender kisses and roaming touches earlier, when the sun rose in the far east and blessed the sands with shimmering light.  _I will return in a few days’ time._

Simple things, his words, yet when Poe looks to his Queen, and takes her hand, he sees writ across her face the very same uncertainty in her eyes that beats like poison in his heart.  A second meeting in less than the span of a full moon cycle means restlessness in diplomatic talks, and restlessness among the leaders means apprehension for the people, anticipation for revolts, for waves of hysteria.  He remembers these revolutions from his youth, when the Pharaoh’s father, and grandfather before him, struggled to hold sway over the sands and the sprawling kingdoms therein. 

His thumb graces his Queen’s knuckles, hoping to soothe her troubles even as his heart trips over its own rhythm with every breath. 

An effort is made to assuage his worried mind as he seeks out the stranger, pride on his tongue as he tells the man he is free to train at the grounds when and how he pleases, and that the guardsmen and soldiers have been informed of his presence.  The Northerner regards him with what Poe can only assume is caution, before he nods in thanks, and leaves at once—presumably to work restive muscles.

For the remainder of the day he reads, indulging in the scrolls and pamphlets.  Some of the texts are more arduous than others, their writings laboring upon dull at best, trifling of time and patience at worst.  More than a handful of times, between relentlessly monotonous text and the heat following the storms, Poe finds himself drifting in and out of focus, his mind not so much wandering as temporarily relieving itself of thought.  He sips water, and wine, and sets aside those he cannot bear to glance at any further.

When nightfall comes, he rolls up the papyrus scrolls, leaving them to rest on his table, before making his way toward the Northerner’s rooms.  Sweat slicked and dirty, he finds the pale man lying on cool stone, breathing slowly, his eyes closed.  Not quite so pale, though, Poe muses, as he stares upon sun-seared flesh, shoulders and chest dipping from a marvelous pink to an incredible red.

“Would you like me to draw you a bath?”  Poe inquires first, slipping through the veil, his words posing as his announcement.  The man doesn’t budge.

“I will draw it when I am ready.”  His low voice rumbles from somewhere in that great and terrifying chest, and Poe bites the inside of his cheek to keep his gaze from raking too incessantly across gleaming pecs and sand-scrubbed legs. 

“Would you rather I leave?”  He asks quietly, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Not before you say what you came for.”

Damn this man.

“Are you hungry?”  Poe breathes at last.  The Northerner opens his eyes, staring up toward the ceiling. 

“What hour is it?”  He asks, and Poe blinks, glancing toward the darkened sky beyond the arches of the man’s room, a cool breeze billowing between the narrow pillars. 

“Perhaps two passed sundown?  Not quite the middle of the night?  Why?”  He lowers his gaze back to the Northerner, watching as the man sits up without assistance of his hands on stone.  Core muscles bulge briefly with strain and effort, but the man makes no sound or face of discontent.  If anything, he looks passive and calm for the first time in weeks.

“I am hungry, then,” he says, rolling onto his knees, before standing.  Poe shakes his head.

“Have you not eaten today?”  Poe presses incredulously, eyes narrowing as his arms fall away from his chest, his heart skipping some.  The Northerner ignores him, turning and going toward the bathing chamber through the adjacent arch.  Following, Poe’s feet are light and silent against the stone, and he watches the other man raise the hatch to allow river water to flow freely.  It comes gushing through, no doubt colder than the starry night beyond the arches. 

The man strips his _shendyt_ , the shade difference between a sunburnt torso and white hips and cheeks almost blinding.  Tossing the dirty linen aside before sinking down into the waters, the hiss of his breath is barely audible above the churning of the bathing hole.  Leaning a shoulder against the open arch of the room, Poe purses his lips as he waits for the man to submerge, to rinse his skin, and reach for the jar of _swabu_ at the edge of the lip. 

“Have you eaten at all, _sen_?”  Perhaps a touch of something akin to camaraderie might ease the resolve of not having a name to—

The man whips around, wet hair clinging to skull and shoulders, eyes wide.  “What did you call me?”

Poe startles, shifting uneasily.  “ _S-sen_?  It—it’s _brother_ in the common language.  Forgive me, I’ll.. stick to Latin.”

Right, he will have to find something amicable in a familiar tongue, as opposed to that which he was raised upon.  That is fair.

Still, the man surprises him by shaking his head quickly, dark eyes narrowing but drifting away as he scoops out _swabu_ , lathering it between his giant palms.  “It—it is no trouble.  I just did not know it.”

Hesitating, Poe swallows thickly as the man begins tentatively carding the _swabu_ through his roots, and along the back of his neck.  He watches the skin turn cream before blistering back to red under the man’s touch.  “I can teach you, you know.  If it would make you feel more comfortable to know at least _some_ of what others are saying?  It’s not difficult to pick up the language—”

“I have no need for other languages,” the man insists, scrubbing his face as well, before ducking under the rushing waters to rinse.  Poe sighs, rolling his eyes as his head tips back some.  Groaning, he shifts his posture, pushing off of the wall as the Northerner surfaces, black hair slicked back, eyes closed.  Gleaming with water and traces of oil from the _swabu_ , Poe bites his tongue as he takes in wide, pinched lips, the nose large and angular yet appropriate for the face.  Dotted birth marks tracing the cheeks, the throat, the chest.

“You may find yourself needing to converse with someone other than me,” he tries, the snapped edges of his words softening as the eyes open, virtually black from across the low-lit room.  “Knowing even a few words or phrases could be beneficial to you.”

A beat passes between them, and the man reaches for the _swabu_ again.

“What do you call this?”  He asks, and Poe hums.

“ _Swabu_.  To clean.  It’s a combination of clay, oils, salts and perfumes.”  He explains, looking down to the paste smeared between the man’s fingers.  Curiosity entices him to wiggle and squish his fingers together, the pale beige coloring turning to muck, and then lather, foam clinging to his fingertips. 

“ _Swabu_ ,” the man repeats slowly, nose scrunching and brow furrowing as if tasting something bitter.

“That’s it.”  Encouragement ought to be a good place to start, he thinks, smiling faintly toward the man in the water.  Hardened eyes find his, before looking away again.

“Yours is a strange language.” 

Well, it was a nice idea.

“The same could be said for yours.”  Poe insists, pride blooming again in his chest as he sees the hint of a smile at the corner of the wide mouth.  “I will let you finish bathing, while I fetch you something to eat.”

He is met with no resistance or opposition, so he withdraws from the bathing chamber, from the rooms that are used but not lived in, or made to feel comfortable.  Instead, he walks, his mind and heart reeling evermore in awe of the man he leaves behind.  Surely, he could not have gone the entire day without eating, not while having trained for most of the time?  And to have endured the sun’s wrath, even with the sparse clouds? 

_Well, the coverage would have made it all the worse._

Making a mental list of meal preparation and some aloe plant, Poe hurries down the torch-lit corridors.  The trek between the east wings and the stock rooms to the south is not particularly short, but he finds himself making good time by counting his strides, evening his breath so as not to allow a cramping in his ribs.  Gathering fruit, and a few slabs of salted, dried duck, he piles everything into a fresh basket, carrying with him as well a thick handful of aloe vera leaves. 

Returning, he finds the Northerner still in the bath, skin scrubbed and clean, but pink flesh burning bright.  Submerged to the shoulder, the man’s face is a withdrawn mask of resignation and exhaustion, and Poe feels his heart kick and throb. 

Setting the basket aside, he fetches a fresh _shendyt_ , laying it and the leaves out near a scattering of pillows.  Moving to the arch separating the rooms, he leans in, and catches the Northerner’s eye.

“Does it hurt?”  He asks, glancing to reddened shoulders.

“I will live,” the man admits, his eyes wavering, and dropping from Poe’s face.  Biting his lip, he looks down to his bare feet, before sighing slowly. 

“When you’re ready, I have something that will help.  As well as food.” 

No response, yet he does not expect one as he turns away to give the Northerner a modicum of privacy to finish his bath.

Uncertain of how much time truly passes, Poe busies himself with laying out the fruit and dried, salted duck meat, using papyrus sheets to protect their meal from the dusted floor.  Stripping the aloe leaves in half, he lays them flesh-side up, cool and gooey insides gleaming and smelling strong.  Humming to himself, he sets aside ten strips total, leaving a few leaves untouched for the morning. 

The Northerner returns, naked with water dripping from the ends of his blackened hair.  Reaching, Poe takes up the clean _shendyt_ , before tossing it toward the other man.  Catching it with ease, the Northerner wraps the linen around his waist, tucking it with ease.  Poe smiles softly, motioning for the man to sit upon the cushions beside him.

“Come, eat, while I apply this to your shoulders,” he says gingerly, shifting so that he may position himself behind the broader man.

“I am fine,” of course he would insist, and Poe shakes his head.

“You’re very much not, my friend.  Sit.  This will make you feel better.” 

The Northerner huffs, but obeys to Poe’s surprise without further complaint.  Cross-legged, he sits momentarily hunched upon the cushions, before seeming to think better of his posture.  He straightens, though not before pulling one of the papyrus sheets closer, so that he may begin eating. 

Picking up one of the stripped leaves, Poe tests its consistency with the tips of his fingers, the fleshy-slickness of the interior cool to the touch.  Breathing slowly, he rises onto his knees, shuffling behind the Northerner.  This close, he can see the depth of some of the scars, the way their edges did not heal, how the right shoulder, even with good posture, dips forward more than the left, as though permanently out of place. 

Biting his lip, Poe hesitates only for a moment before reaching to lay the leaf down from the base of his neck to his shoulder.  The man twitches slightly under the touch, but does not shy away any further. 

“I should have warned you that the light and heat, even on a cloudy day, can be volatile,” Poe breathes, pressing the leaf gently so that the cool slick of in the flesh can sink in and help heal the bright pink flesh of the man’s shoulders and back.  His chest will need it, too, but this area is in need of the most immediate attention.

“I will live, as I always have,” the man says softly, words mildly garbed around a piece of meat. 

“Would you rather be comfortable while you survive?”  Poe presses, raising a brow even though the Northerner does not see. 

“If survival was meant to be comfortable, then it would not be survival.”

Poe opens his mouth, a retaliation ready on his tongue and in his mind, before laying the next leaf.  But what good would it do to speak such, when they both know that he has no understanding or insight to the life this man has led?  That, while his own trials and tribulations have had their suffering and their ecstasy, they will never compare to the life of a soldier—a slave.

He thinks of Pharaoh’s words, of the truth that not all commanders are good, that some are more like masters, that some _are_ masters, and that not every soldier is conditioned to bear the pains of his service for the good of his people, of his brothers and men, but simply because there are so very _few_ good men. 

“May I ask of the scars?”  It is a tentative request, his heart pressing itself into the hollow of his throat as he lays another leaf, draping them along the lines of shoulders, down the spine, where the worst of the burning has occurred.

“You may,” the Northerner responds after a moment, and Poe stares at the back of his head.

“Will you indulge me?”

“No.”

Huffing through his nose, Poe shakes his head, and continues to lay down a few more leaves.  They stick to the Northerner’s back, the cooling flesh of the aloe leaves no doubt providing some measure of relief as he hears the man in front of him sigh deeply, his head bowing a little.  

“I need to put a few across your chest, as well,” Poe admits after a moment, leaving four leaves to cover the broad pecs and collar that he cannot see from his current position.  “I can do those after you’re finished eating.”

“How long must they stay on?”  The man asks, and Poe groans softly as he shifts and settles onto the cushions nearby, sighing softly as feeling begins rushing and returning to his calves and feet. 

“An hour or so.  They will begin to itch, and you may wish to rinse off after they’ve dried.  We can reapply them in the morning.”  He says, pulling closer his own papyrus leaf, finding the fruit split, the meat shared.  Smiling a little, Poe bites the edge of his tongue to keep from commenting too much upon it.

“It is already beginning to itch,” the man complains, brow furrowed and lips pursed as he shifts and wiggles his shoulders.  Unable to help his smile, Poe shakes his head some as he watches the Northerner adjust and settle more comfortably upon his cushions, taking the last remains of his duck meat, tearing it into bite-sized pieces.

“You are quite heavily burned,” Poe remarks, slipping a piece of fruit between his lips.  “Do not scratch.  That will make it hurt worse.”

The man snorts, but says nothing more in favor of eating.

 _This is better,_ Poe thinks to himself, glancing at the man from the corner of his eye as he chews slowly on his food.  The edges of the leaves are visible along the tops of his shoulders, the pink and angry flesh stretching still down the front of his torso, and up his throat.  His cheeks and brow are a bit red, as well, and Poe exhales through his nose before swallowing. 

“Tell me of Mycenae?”  He inquires, raising a brow at the man while putting a strip of meat onto his tongue.  The Northerner casts him a curious glance.

“It is colder than here.  Rains often, except during the summer months.  Which are now, but this…” he glances over his shoulder to the blackened sky beyond the pillars, and Poe hums in response.

“I’ve never been north, so I can’t imagine much beyond what we experience here.  These months have been unusually hot, but when the end of the year comes, the nights will feel vastly different.  You may actually want furs instead of linens.”  He offers a shy smile and a shrug, taking another bite of fruit between his teeth.

The Northerner’s eyes find his face, hard and distant.  “You anticipate me being here that long?”

His breath catches somewhere in the back of his throat, thankfully a ghost only passing his teeth as his attention moves to the man at his side.  Those eyes do not leave his, unwavering, but not… cold, or malicious, the way they might have looked in the past.  Curious, uncertain.  There is a glimmer in the shades of brown, the flecks of honey even in the low oil-lamp-light that puts a spark beneath Poe’s skin, skittering along the nerves and veins of his body, and he tries not to choke around his fruit as he swallows it slowly.

“Ah,” he muffles a bit, licking his lips.  “I know not, for sure.  I don’t believe I would be opposed to it, but I suppose you would like to return to your homeland, no?”

An honest and realistic question though it may be, there is something akin to hollowness that floods his core, ravaging his appetite and the shreds of warmth from their conversation.  Imperfect as the sharing of words may have been at times, this is without a doubt the most cordial conversation they have had since the man’s arrival.  The idea of losing it so soon is…

Surprisingly heartbreaking.

“Perhaps,” the stout Northerner mutters, blinking once before looking away.  Poe swallows again, this time around nothing more than the knot that is currently suffocating him.  He will take _perhaps_ , for in _perhaps_ there is neither certainty or denial.  There is possibility, and if it is possible for the man to go, and return to that distant homeland across the blue waters, then it is just as so for him to stay.

While undoubtedly unusual to seek companionship in someone so vastly _different,_ there remains a sense of adventure in the prospect.  Poverty has denied Poe much of the ambition to see more of the world, and while quick-learning and opportunity, as well as the blessing of being brought into the home, company, and service of the Pharaoh and the Queen, have granted him much in the way of language and reading, texts and imagination only provide so much.  Yet the Northerner, should he feel so inclined as to trust enough to indulge in the raw experiences of the great continents northward, could share much to satisfy Poe’s ever unsatisfied mind.

And if it all means, in the end, that he has another friend, another confidant, then that would not, at all, be so bad.

“Perhaps?”  He offers, the compelling blossom of hope tickling his ribs.  He tries not to let his smile betray that which is presently warming his chest.

The Northerner’s eyes find his, a momentary flash of radiance as a breeze makes the nearest brazier waver.

“Perhaps,” he mumbles again, accompanying the faintest twist of a smile with the word.

 

* * *

 

Later, as he lays himself down upon his bed, linen sheets and woven blanket half-tossed over his legs and waist, Poe finds his mind drifting to that of the Northerner. 

He slipped away but an hour ago, after peeling away dried aloe vera leaves and helping the man rinse away the tack and residue left behind.  The burning is still in need of further treatment, but the strips where he’d laid the leaves earlier already look leagues better than before.  He had instructed the man to put fresh ones on in the morning before training, and to eat something proper lest he would _like_ to faint and fall over.  Met with a slight but wry smile, the Northerner had waived him off and blew out the oil lamps. 

But now, in the quiet of his rooms, with his own flames snuffed and the distant howling of wind cutting between sand dunes and palm trees, his mind reels.  They spoke more tonight than in the last thirteen days since the man’s arrival, and yet the man remains as elusive and vague as ever about his history, his home, and more.  Words and breath though they’ve shared, as Poe closes his eyes and leaves his arm to rest above his head, it comes with stifling realization that there is still so much left to learn.

 _Give it time,_ he hears a mix of his voice and his Queen’s, and he sighs deeply.  Shifting, he wriggles down into the comfort of his bed, fibers creaking and fabric shifting, before the cool and collective darkness of night and sleep claim him.

Unlike the last several nights, the black of unconsciousness peels away to reveal shifting, sparkling, and shimmering images.  The faces of Pharaoh, of his Queen, are reoccurring, soft and seductive as he feels the ghost of their lips on his skin, their hands in his hair or between his legs.  Often he hears their voices, their soft moans and sighs of pleasure as he touches their writhing bodies, teasing with feather-light strokes, or watching with delight as his hand comes cracking against the curve of a cheek, a back arching, a cry ringing out in the ether of his imagination.

Half-tangled between them, the images blur and change, and there is heat.  The fine grains of sand beneath his back and shoulders, the smell of wet dirt and sweat souring his tongue.  His eyes are closed, hands on his hips, his thighs, pushing his legs up and open.  The press of fingers teasing his ass, slipping in slowly until the faint burn subsides to a delicious thrum of pleasure.  He arches, moaning, fingers curling and clawing at damp sand.

Lips touch the side of his neck, the mouth plush and wide.  Humming, Poe dig his head into the sand, grains tickling and scrubbing along his scalp.  Orange and yellow glow across closed lids, the warmth of the air leaving him flushed.  His knees are brought around a pair of strong, thick, wide hips, and his Pharaoh’s name lingers on the tip of his tongue, unspoken.

 _Beautiful,_ he hears, in a voice that belongs to neither of his lovers, in a language that is not common to the sands of the kingdom.

Yet when his eyes open, wide and momentarily blinded by the flare of overhead sunlight, there is nothing but open blue skies, cloudless and expansive.  Gasping, something thicker, wider, achingly comparable to the heft of his Pharaoh’s cock presses to him.  Pushing, burning with an imaginary girth, it slips in so sudden, and so _easily_ that it steals his breath.  Reeling, Poe arches in his dreams, his physical body shifting on the mattress in the world of Waking, as he blinks back gleaming stars and dazzling lights. 

The hands holding his legs are pale, creamy white.  Forearms thick, long and giving way to immense arms, broad, newly freckled shoulders, a torso pocked with dark marks and moles, and black tangled hair that kisses passed the jaw and throat.  When their eyes meet, Poe wakes, gasping for breath as his cock throbs beneath the twisted linen sheet, slick staining his skin and the fabric.

 

* * *

 

“You seem distracted, _imi-ib_.”

Poe sighs quietly, walking with a delicate and leisurely pace at his Queen’s side.  Beyond the arches of the corridors, the skies are overcast again with thick, greying clouds, and the air tastes of oncoming rains.

“Forgive me, _Nebet-i_ ,” he mumbles, casting her a glance, “I did not sleep as well as I would have hoped last night.”

“Tell me,” she insists, weaving her arm with his as they continue their path.  At the coming of dawn, he’d heard the Northerner slip down the hall, presumably to make for the training grounds before the rest of the soldiers could do the same.  When his Queen had found him, still tangled up in his sheets, she asked that he join her on a stroll to see their guest at work.

“It is of little importance,” he continues at once, the rush of his words betraying the lie to his own ears, and when his Queen raises a brow, fixing him with a hard stare, he knows she has discerned truth of her own.

“There’s no need to indulge me if you’re not ready to do so, but do not lie to me, Poe.”

Frowning some, he nods slowly, more apologies and excuses on his tongue even as his mind paints elaborate details of the Northerner above him, his legs wrapped around that muscled waist, calloused and scar-torn hands opening him up—

“Unforgiving dreams,” he admits at last, their sandals scraping on stone as they make their way westward, to the training grounds.  “Images that… were enticing, but their context concerning.”

“Concerning?”  The Queen inquires, and Poe nods once, resigning himself to the truth that if he is going to be vague, then he may as well fuck this nonsense and be honest.

“I had a dream of passion about our guest.”

“Are you ashamed of this?”  She muses, her head turning towards him even as his eyes remain ahead, watching their path.

“Of the dream?  No, I am not.  What I am ashamed of is apparently lusting after a man who tolerates my presence as best, who has no desire to stay here.”  He concedes, bowing his head some as they pass a patrol, the guardsmen bowing deeply to their Queen, before they continue marching on.

“There’s nothing wrong with finding him beautiful, or desirable, Poe.  Lusting is not wrong, either.  It would only _be_ wrong if you were to attempt acting upon those impulses and desires without his consent.”  She assures, and Poe swallows around the lump of his heart in his throat.

“I would never,” he remarks, meeting her eye.

“Then you have nothing to feel embarrassed for, _imi-ib_.  Admiring and desiring another is normal for many.  Finn has thought of him, too.”

She says it so nonchalantly that he nearly breaks his neck in turning to her, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“ _Finn_?” 

His Queen laughs, bright and charming before she reduces herself to a smirk, and a knowing gleam in her eye.  “He has fondness for men—all shapes and colors.  But if you breathe a word of that to him before he tells you himself, your privileges of touching me will be revoked for a moon cycle.”

“He’ll not hear a thing from me, _Nebet-i_ ,” Poe insists, grinning as he kisses her temple.  “Thank you.  I… I know in my heart and mind there is no shame, and.. and he is beautiful.  It was bound to occur, given how much more time we are beginning to share with one another.  It only troubles me because I am certain he longs for home, and will no doubt leave in time.”

“He has not left yet, and he has been free to do so since you assisted in his wounds when he was brought before us,” she retorts.  Poe shakes his head.

“I am unsure that _he_ is aware of his freedom.  Though he’s made no mention to me, I have to wonder if he thinks himself a lavished prisoner of your estate.”

“Then I will remedy this,” the Queen declares, eyes gleaming as they step through a modest rotunda, and out into the western plain where the training grounds reside.  Sure enough, with the sun not quite breaching the thick of clouds, the air is hot and heavy.  A straggling of dark-skinned and toned soldiers train near the mud pit, or one-on-one with _khopesh_ blades, but across the compound, ignored and alone, is the Northerner, hefting javelins with freshly-sharpened points over his head, throwing them along the lane. 

Each one that he can see pieces nearer to the center of wheat-wrapped targets than he would ever be able to accomplish.  With time, he watches the target less, and the Northerner more.

“He has good form,” the Queen comments after a number of silent heartbeats, and Poe blinks, cheeks flushing as he realizes she’s staring at him.  “Our own soldiers could likely learn a thing, or two, from him.”

“He made that same remark two days ago, when he asked to train,” Poe replies, smiling shyly at her.  She chuckles, her eyes leaving his face as she looks back to the compound.  A few soldiers have taken regard of their presence, bow to her, and then continue training.  The Northerner does not pay any of them mind, instead increasing the distance between himself and the target between each throw. 

Breathless, Poe watches, enraptured, as the Northerner, gleaming with sweat, feet and legs smeared with dust and dirt, moves further and further away.  His hair is sweaty, half-pulled back with a strip of leather cording to keep his locks from falling into his eyes.  The javelins seem so small, so thin compared to his wrist, his arm, the muscles bulging and skin pulling taut as he rears back and throws again, his now empty hand crossing over his body and nearly touching the portion of lower back of his opposite side.

The javelin pierces dead center, even from a distance that must be as least thirty meters or more.

“Impressive,” the Queen says, before she’s pulling from his side, and walking toward the grounds.  Stammering, Poe swallows his shaken heart, following her.  Their feet sink slightly in the sand, but the nearer they draw to the dampened dirt, the easier it becomes to walk. 

Passing the other soldiers, Poe is acutely aware of their staring in his peripheral, hardened expressions and sweaty faces turning as they make their way toward the Northerner.  If contempt had followed him before, surely it must be doubling now as the guardsmen watch him and the Queen approach the stranger. 

 _The stranger who is better than them, no less_.

Upon the sound of their feet on the dirt, the Northerner throws one last javelin, hitting just shy of the one before it, both heads spearing through the center of the painted target before he turns.  Sweat shimmers on his skin, beads rolling down his front and along his arms.  The edges of his hairline are wet and dark, the ends of his hair sticking to the back of his neck and his shoulders.  His _shendyt_ is dirtied, sweat stained around the waist and along the hem, and Poe feels his mouth go a bit dry as he offers a soft and tentative smile to the other man, his heart beating furiously beneath his skin as his Queen steps forward.

“You have excellent aim,” she says, the pronunciation of her Latin far smoother than his had been the first time he spoke to the other man.  Brief though it is, Poe takes pleasure in the way the man’s eyes widen at her voice, her use of his language.

“A thousand thanks, my…Lady?” the Northerner replies, voice even and cool as he bows his head.  “Forgive me, if that is not a proper way to address you.”

“It will suffice, and there is nothing to forgive.”  She continues, stepping closer still, until there are but a handful of steps between her and the broad Northerner.  Poe chokes back a breath, his heart skipping a beat as he follows her.  “Are the grounds to your liking?”

The Northerner blanches, his eyes seeking Poe’s as if for some confirmation, but Poe can offer nothing beyond a shrug, and a shy smile.

“They are, my Lady,” he says, bowing is head again.  The Queen chuckles quietly, waving him off.

“You’ve no need to bow to me.  You’re an honored guest,” she insists, raising her head high and proud, her hands folded in front of her.  The fabric of her _kalasiris_ shimmers in a gentle breeze, gauzy and bright against her dark skin.  Poe watches as the Northerner swallows thickly, taking her in, taking _him_ in, before his gaze returns to the Queen. 

“I am indebted to your generosity, then.”  He says, voice low and almost tender, the wave of it sending shivers down Poe’s spine.

“Then pay your due, now, and answer me this: is Poe treating you well?” 

Openly, Poe gawks at the Queen beside him, his eyes wide, his cheeks burning bright before he ducks his head to avoid meeting the man’s eyes.  It would do no good to make him feel pressured into answering in such means that the Queen may wish to hear.  But, also, if the man is honest and speaks coldly, he does not wish to look into that face, into those eyes, and hear slights, no matter how true they may be.

For he has not be as good as he can be, has not been as kind.  He has pushed, prodded, even at times demanded information.  He has coaxed it out of the Northerner as reparation for assistance, for healing, for comfort and health.  Is that considered treating someone well?  Is that favorable?  _Unlikely_ , he tells himself, staring hard down at the sand beneath his sandals, ignoring the heavy pause between his Queen’s question and the man’s low-rolling response.

“Yes.”

Wait, _what?_

He does not lift his head, but his lips part in a gasp as he listens.

“Better than expected, and better than I may deserve.”

“How do you mean?”  The Queen asks, and Poe can all but hear the smile in her voice, no doubt the corners of her mouth pulled up, her eyes shining.

“I am unfamiliar with hospitality, with the kindness he has provided.  I imagine much of my actions in response have been disproportionately ungrateful, and for that I must beg his forgiveness.  I have given him every reason to leave me to my own matters.  While there are some days of absence, he always returns and ensures that I am comfortable.  For that, I am beyond grateful.”

_Oh, Gods…_

Beside him, the Queen hums, satisfied, before her voice cuts his spinning thoughts.  “Straighten up, Poe, and look this man in the eye as he compliments you.”

He obeys after a heartbeat, lifting his shoulders and his head, eyes drifting across sweat-slicked skin, a strong jaw, a wide mouth, dark and honey-kissed eyes.  For so long, Poe has seen the likes of apprehension, aggression, even misery, at times, in that gaze.  Yet now there is something of peace, a tender mirth that glimmers, and pulls at the corner of the man’s mouth.  Surprising, and blissfully unwarranted, Poe smiles brighter in return, bowing his head some in regard.

“I hope to continue to be worthy of such praises.”  He admits, his face still burning lightly.  The Northerner hums, and turns his attention back toward the Queen.

“Is there anything else I may do, or share with you, my Lady?”  Though he cannot be too surprised, to hear such formality from the other man is… enticing.  Brutish and unwavering in his criticisms and his presence, the Northerner speaks to royalty with grace, eloquence beyond what Poe might have considered possible for a soldier.  Then again, the man continues to brim with a great number of tricks and revelations.

“Not at this time.  If you wish, you may continue your training.”  She says.  The Northerner bows to her, fixing Poe briefly with a look and a small smile, before turning away again.

Staring after him, Poe watches as the man makes his way down the lane, retrieving the javelins previously thrown.  Even from so far away, he can see that the pink flesh of his shoulders and chest are, indeed, looking much fainter, blending slowly into tan and freckles.  The scarring across his back is still angry as ever, pale cream and deep pink lines and marks marring from shoulder to waist, a few even on his legs and thighs that have gone, thus far, unnoticed.

Breathing slowly, he tears his attention away from the man, to find the Queen grinning at him, her dark eyes shining brighter than stars.

“Tolerates you at best?”  She inquires, and he groans quietly.

“If you’re aiming to raise my hopes, you’re doing an unfairly splendid job,” he mutters, following her as she begins to walk back toward the palace. 

“I am merely making an observation, _imi-ib_ ,” she claims, shaking her head.  “You worry so much about whether he hates you that you fail to notice that he seems quite fond of you.”

“Fond is hardly the word I would use,” Poe sneers, his feet sinking into the sand as they reach drier, softer portions, before the stone supports his weight.  The Queen lets out a soft _humph_ , her _kalasiris_ shifting around her hips and ankles as they step under the cool shade of the stone walls. 

“You might take a moment and open your eyes, _imi­-ib_ , and let yourself _see_.”  She chides, turning to take his jaw in her hand.  “You have an opportunity to find a friend and a confidant in him.  Let go of what you keep telling yourself _must_ be true about him, and instead _listen_ to what he tells you.  He will not share everything at once—he is not like you.  Be patient, Poe.”

“You know better than anyone that is not one of my strengths,” he concedes, smiling at her.

She smirks.  “If that were truly the case, you would never have insisted upon helping him in the first place.”

 

* * *

 

He sups with the Northerner just after sunset, once the man is freshly bathed and wrapped in a clean _shendyt_ of pale linen and dipped embroidery, rich shades of sapphire and ruby adorning the hem.  Their meal consists of figs, plums, cucumbers and leeks, as well as a flame-cooked slab of fish from the great rivers.  Savory, and filling, they share in some wine gifted by his Queen, and though they talk little, their time together is satisfying and gentle.

Fresh aloe leaves are applied to the man’s shoulders and chest, some of the fleshy-gel smeared across the Northerner’s cheeks and jaw.  A shadow of facial hair is creeping in, and Poe goes to fetch an edged stone and more _swabu_. 

“For if you decide to shave,” he says, accepting the small nod as gratitude.

When the meal is shared and finished, and the oil lamps snuffed within the Northerner’s rooms, Poe makes his way across the great palace to the southern rotunda, between the cool curtains separating the spaces, and into the Queen’s bed.  Her arms open to him, his lips finding hers in a sweet and simple kiss.  In moments, his own _shendyt_ is pulled away, and she guides him between her thighs.  Whispered names and sighs of passion flood the quiet night, the distant stars and glow of the moon painting his Queen in silver light as they fuck, her body clenched and satisfied around him as he comes inside of her.

She tells him that when Pharaoh returns, he will likely want Poe’s company in their bed.  Smiling, he assures her that he knows this, imparting another kiss between her breasts, before they settle in for sleep.

And sleep does not come for him as quickly as it does for her.  He watches the moon and stars race across the black backdrop of the midnight sky, their shifting and swirling paths like a delicate dance as he cradles his beloved Queen in his arms.  Her head rests over his heartbeat, her hand splayed against his shoulder.  Looking to her, he traces similar patterns to the constellations he sees beyond the arches along her arm, her back, down to the supple curve of her ass and her thigh.  She does not rouse in the slightest, her breath light and cool against his skin.

A handful of days shy of a full moon cycle, and the shift in his life could not be any more staggering than in this moment.

In a blink, morning comes, and his Queen is no longer in his embrace.  Instead, he rolls away from the late morning glow, the heat of the coming day already leaving him sweaty and sticky.  Water churns and bubbles nearby, and when Poe raises his head and looks to the bathing chamber some handful of steps away, he sees her shadow in the water. 

Smiling, he rises, and moves to join her.

“I was wondering when you would wake, _imi-ib_ ,” she teases him, smirking as she scrubs _swabu_ along her scalp, and the back of her neck.

“I did not fall asleep for some hours,” he admits, sinking down into the bath with her.  “I watched you rest, and traced the stars on you with my fingers.”

“Is that why I woke and felt as though I’d been touched all night?”  She inquires, raising a brow at him.  He smirks, dipping under the waters to wet his hair, slipping across the stone until his hands find her hips, and he kisses her thighs under the current.  She trembles, momentarily opening for him.  Sneaking a kiss against her sex, he surfaces in front of her, breathless and grinning.

“Insatiable man.” 

Laughing, Poe kisses her throat, his hands reaching around her to take the _swabu_ from the lip of the stone behind her.

He bathes and eats a light morning meal with her, before slipping away and back to his chambers in the eastern wing of the palace.  His bed is untouched from the day before, cushions and pillows strewn, his tables bearing cosmetics and scrolls.  Humming, Poe crosses and takes the papyrus sheets into his arms, cradling them close before making the trek northward to the library. 

Unbothered the whole way, he allows his thoughts to wander as he slips into the massive room, the walls alight with golden beams of sunshine cascading between pillars.  The air smells of crisp linen and papyrus, of dried ink and paint.  Breathing slowly, Poe retraces his steps through the aisles and shelves, reading the surrounding texts and engraved edges as he puts back the readings he borrowed. 

Taking the better part of an hour, he slips the last scroll into place, sighing quietly as his fingers skim along the rolled pages, smearing flakes of dust along his skin and into the air.  Somewhere in the distance, he hears quiet singing, no doubt of a passing servant girl, and he allows himself a small smile.  A beautiful thing, her song—a pleasant tale of colorful autumn days, and lovers.

Passing along another aisle, Poe picks a few new scrolls and sheets to read, most of them in Coptic, others in Latin scripture.  Myths, mostly, creative legends that tell of the gods, of the birth of man, of passion and war.  Tucking these in his arms, he moves to the center of the library, and out through the main arches once more, trekking back to the east.  No doubt if he wished he could accompany his Queen, and fill the absence of Pharaoh with his presence, but after an evening and morning spent with her, he thinks better of burdening her time further.  Though their King is away, she still has duties, and he will see to her later.

He makes himself comfortable in his own space, choosing to sprawl across cushions and his woven blanket across the floor instead of reclining on his bed as he has done in the past.  A bowl of fruit sits beside him, as well as a rich cup of wine.  He is careful not to smear juice or liquid across the pages, the papyrus crinkling lightly beneath his gentle touch as he reads from a scroll depicting an epic poem covering a decade of battle and relentless quarrels between opposing peoples.

Propped up on his elbows, with his ankles crossed and his feet in the air, Poe hums and mumbles some of the words on occasion, Grecian dialects tripping his unaccustomed tongue.  Still, there are names and words that he recognizes, a flash of familiarity as he mutters _Mycenae_ under his tongue.  Always better at reading than speaking it, he allows himself a handful of indeterminate moments to get lost in the illusory tale, before a shadow crosses in his peripheral, and he lifts his head to see the figure that has graced his company.

“ _Sen_ ,” he muses, smiling some as the Northerner comes and sits down upon a cushion in front of him.  Blinking, Poe regards this sudden action with a moment of pause, tilting his head some as he looks up to the other man.  “Did you not train today?”

The man is uncharacteristically clean, body free of grime and healing slowly from his sunburns.  His hair hangs in thick, tousled waves that shine in the afternoon light, looking soft and smooth.  Keeping his hands in check, Poe shifts on his elbows some more, careful not to crinkle or ruin the papyrus scroll beneath him. 

“No,” the Northerner says at last, his eyes shifting down to the page.  “What are you reading?”

“Mythical tale from a writer not far from your country.  Would you like to read it?”  He offers, but the Northerner shakes his head.  “Suit yourself.  What can I help you with, today, _sen_?”

There is a flash in the man’s eyes at the name, but he says nothing of it.  “Nothing, truly.”

Poe frowns some, and begins making quick work of rolling the scroll up.  “Is something troubling you?”

The man’s nose crinkles some, his brows furrowing as his eyes never leave the scrawl of writing before it is rolled up and tucked away.  Sitting up onto his knees, Poe rests his hands on his thighs, tilting his head a little as he waits for the other to respond. 

“Were you bothered by what I said yesterday?”  He asks at last.

“Bothered?  Why would I have been bothered?”  Poe breathes, raising a brow.  The man shuffles in front of him, massive hands pressing down the hem of his _shendyt_ to better cover his thighs and knees. 

“The Queen made you look at me.  I was unsure if I offended you.”  He admits quietly, as though the words themselves cause agony to speak.  Poe sighs, shaking his head as he pushes the bowl of half-eaten fruit toward the other man in a quiet peace offering.  The Northerner eyes it, and then takes a wedge of melon.

“I was embarrassed.  More from the fact that you thought— _think_ , rather, that I am serving you well, when I feel as though I have not.  At first I was certain that you must have been lying, but even in this short time I feel that I’ve learned if you have something to say, it will be brutally honest, if need be.”

The other man snorts, chuckling quietly as he chews on the melon wedge, and Poe smiles as well, face warming some as he takes in the broad chest, the dark and rounded nipples, the thick muscle and folded stomach.  The man is hunched forward, again, and Poe quietly wonders if it is in an effort to stretch the back, to take tension from the scarring that mottles his skin.

“But, no, I was not offended.  I was merely anticipating the worst—that you would tell the Queen I’d treated you terribly, or that you were unhappy and uncomfortable here.”

Their eyes meet, a moment passing that steals Poe’s breath, and replaces it instead with fire that seems to burn its way through his chest, and into his very soul.  Such an ambiguous gaze in those dark brown eyes, sending shivers down his spine and a flush of something that leaves him wanting. 

Wanting.

 _Gods_ , save him.

“Why do you concern yourself with whether I am happy or not?  I am not like you, or the Queen, or any of the soldiers here.”  He says quietly, brow furrowed and jaw clenched.  Angry is not the word Poe would use—cautious, uncertain, or incredulous would better describe the haunted look in the face.

But not the eyes.  Never the eyes, remaining ever equivocal.

Sighing quietly, Poe brings a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing free a spot of tension that blossomed that morning.  “While I may not be a man of your experience, or know of even half of the suffering you’ve survived, I know what it means to feel unwanted, unwelcome in places that are meant to feel like home, just as much as those that are entirely foreign.  The life of an outcast is not easy, and I do not wish to see it imposed upon anyone.”

Breathing slowly, Poe continues.  “Besides.  I like to feel that the Gods put me upon these sands for a reason, that I have a purpose beyond—” _beyond poverty, beyond begging for scraps, beyond being the King and Queen’s lover, beyond being a good fuck_ — “beyond just being _alive._  I know not, yet, what they have in store, but I like to believe that it entails helping others, and ensuring that no one must feel the way I have felt in the past.”

Silence for a moment, and then two—and, _Gods_ , he _swears_ that these breaks will forever be the death of him, the constant ebbing of _nothing_ gnawing away at the tendrils where anxiety and impatience collide.  For a moment, there’s a vacancy in the man’s eyes as he nods, before his voice comes, at last, with an aching measure of softness.  “That is very noble of you.” 

“It’s something,” Poe concedes, shrugging some as he takes another piece of fruit between his fingers.  “So, whether my aid to you is just providing food and clothing, or it means that I help you accomplish something you’ve never done, or it means that I serve as a companion and a friend… I will do it.  Any of that.”

A smile creeps into the corner of the man’s mouth as he takes his own wedge of fruit, observing it closely between his thick fingers.  “Ren.”

Poe blinks, tilting his head.  “Pardon?”

The Northerner’s eyes raise to Poe’s face, softer than he expects, rich and bold in their intensity.  “My name is Ren.”

**Author's Note:**

> Not entirely sure how long this is gonna be, but strap in for a ride, if ya don't mind ;D 
> 
> Additionally, big fat fucking thank you to my muse and dear friend, AquaWolfGirl. Without her none of this would even be happening, or be even remotely as worthwhile. She is the moon of my life. <3 
> 
> Terms!  
> nemes - tied, striped head cloth worn by Pharaohs  
> khat - open head cloth, non-striped, worn by Pharaohs  
> swabu - a paste containing ash, clay, and often scented; the equivalent of soap  
> shenti - a kilt-like cloth worn at the waist, often by peasants  
> shendyt - a kilt-like cloth worn at the waist and extended to the knees, often worn by commoners to Pharaohs  
> kalasiris - a sheath dress worn by women, often with one or two straps for the shoulders; class status determines any possible embellishment, or additions such as capes and shawls  
> khopesh - the curved, bronze blades used by soldiers  
> Imi-ib - "Beloved"  
> senet - "sister"  
> sen - "brother"  
> Nebet-i - "My Lady"  
> Neb-i - "My Lord"


End file.
